


I'm not grumpy

by Lizburns



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/F, Fluff, Foolishness, Humor, No Angst, Post AI apocalypse, Team Machine is still going strong, established relationships - Freeform, only if you count people trying Shaw, shaw centric, shoot, shusco
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-08-08 20:53:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7773010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizburns/pseuds/Lizburns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day started off fine, and then it just... spiraled out of control. </p><p> </p><p>[See inside notes for alternate summary]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I woke up like this

**Author's Note:**

> Tags=eh. Summary=blah. 
> 
> Basically, Shaw's ever so thin patience will be tested in the course of an 8 hour day. A day that just doesn't seem to be going her way. Will she pull through?

You awoke this morning just like any other, to the alarm clock that is Root.

 

Though you two sleep on opposite sides of the bed, all the tossing and turning she does at night eventually brings your fussy girlfriend closer. So when 5 AM rolls around, so does she; with a hand up your shirt or down your pants. _Hmph,_ so  Root's subconsciously chosen to play with your boobs today. Well alright then.

 

Like annoying clockwork, you come to when you feel her buzzing fingers tickling your skin, kneading the soft swells of your chest. Actually... it's not annoying, not today at least. After you blink and adjust to being awake, you find it more amusing than irritating.

 

She must still be sleeping, you think. This drooling nerd, mumbling and groaning nonsense as she foolhardily fondles and curls herself more into you. Spooning, but only she calls it that.

 

So Root's _not_ spooning you, or _cuddling_ , or any of that nonsense. When you really wake up, you realize she's having some kind of wet dream. What else could explain the way she's slow grinding into your backside, moaning incoherently. _Grunting?_ Yep, that was a grunt. 

 

Normally, you'd just push her off, swear and beg to have a few more minutes of rest. Oddly, today you feel like humoring her. Arching back and pretending to stretch, you give her just a bit more of that sought after pressure, enough to make her gasp and moan wantonly in her sleep... what she would call teasing, you call it fair play.

 

When those lazy fingers become more deliberate with your nipples, that's when you know Root's really awake.

 

She pulls you flush with her, mushes her face into the back of your neck and whispers a sleepy, “G'mornin.” It just might be, you think. Maybe it's from the solid eight hours of sleep, maybe the dream you've already forgotten about was a nice one. Or maybe it's waking up enveloped by this frisky warmth of a woman.

 

You're not sure but you chuckle anyway. “Good dream huh?” you ask, and she replies in the affirmative with a drawn out hum that vibrates down your spine. “Better have been about me,” you say, but the last word just tapers off into a small moan when she touches you somewhere more sensitive and rolls her hips into you one last good time.

 

“What do you think?” she says, running her cheek along your neck. You think you can feel the first smirk of the day pressing on your skin and in no way do you feel crowded by it.

 

You ask if she's hungry, because you know she worked late into the evening and probably skipped dinner. Root just drags the blunt ends of her nails along your stomach and nips your ear. Says, “M'starving,” in a sultry voice still husky from sleep.

 

“I'll make something,” you tell her. Then it becomes a mission. Objective: somehow leave the Root cocoon and make her breakfast. Keep her alive so that you two can continue _this._

 

Root just tightens her arm around you though. “What I'm hungry for isn't in the kitchen,” she cleverly adds. You have to stop her before that idle hand of hers meets the elastic waistband of your shorts.

 

“You're eating before I leave.” However, the sternness of your scolding voice has yet to wake with you. You immediately have to elaborate before she can even begin to utter the wise crack itching on the tip of her tongue. That you're putting food in her mouth and nothing else. Well, for now.

 

And of course, once she's done pouting for show and untangling herself from you, she'll try one last time to get you to stay. When you're done stretching, you turn around and find Root lying nonchalantly on her back with an arm hooked behind her head. The other is playing somewhere beneath her thin white t-shirt. You smirk because she's so not subtle at all sometimes. Because in the three seconds your back was turned, she pushed all the sheets to the floor and hiked up her shirt just before the good bits.

 

You roll your eyes right out of the bedroom, hearing her groan irately as you leave. That's okay. You'd rather her be sexually frustrated than malnourished.

 

A few minutes later, you're mixing pancake batter by the stove, still smirking. Thinking if Root got any skinnier, she'd look like one those inflatable tube man things you see waving around car dealerships. You snort a little at the image in your head.

 

“What's so funny?” Root pokes her head out of the bedroom and you throw a quick, “Nothing,” over your shoulder.

 

You hear her pad into the kitchen. Weird, a short while ago you thought she was mad at you, but now she's humming something indistinct but pretty sounding. A song you think might mimic what you believe to be her prancing around like a gazelle. But you're too focused on food to spare her the odd look.

 

She rifles through the fridge for a moment before you hear it close, and then she veers off somewhere near the kitchen island behind you. Root likes to keep you company while you cook sometimes and pretend to help. Though, you're pretty sure she really just likes staring at your butt. Especially when you chop vegetables.

 

The first pancake hits the skillet and sizzles on contact. The steam slowly starts to fill the apartment with the pleasant aroma of breakfast. Root lets out a hum to that effect. The way it escapes her lips though... long and drawn and far too pleased... you're sure it has nothing to do with the smell of food. In fact, you're very sure, when you let you're own curiosity get the better and divide your attention.

 

There on the island counter, long bare legs crossed over the edge, Root sits, sucking on strawberry rather than eating it. You could just roll your eyes at her new found enthusiasm for fruit, but they're kind of stuck where they are. Fixated as Root uses her mouth and this strawberry to act out something she could be doing to you instead.

 

She really gets into it, closes her eyes and moans. The sound is still hot when it reaches your ears, it warms the low center of your body now pooling with arousal. Root, she makes your mouth water in a way food never will and suddenly, you really really wanna be that strawberry.

 

Root finally takes notice of you. Finally, after what felt like ages she looks at you with those seductive bedroom eyes. “Sameen...” God, you love it when she says your name like that. You think any moment she's going to beckon you closer and claim you like she did with that piece of fruit. You're biting right through your own goddamn lip in anticipation for hers to open and voice that command, but when they do, they just say, “The pancakes are burning.”

 

Later, after you play fire fighter with the sink's spray nozzle, breakfast is served!

 

Root could care less though, about the meal you almost burned up the apartment trying to prepare for her. She seemed far more interested in flirting with you. While you ate, she played footsie under the table, said things like how she'd love to 'flap your jack', or stick a fork in your cake instead. _What the fuck does that even mean?_

 

Anyhow, you threatened her with no 'cake' for a week and she took ONE teeny tiny bite. Then she just picked at the rest, moved pieces around to make the plate appear less full. Something a child would do. Did she really think that was going to work with you?

 

It wasn't until you made a certain deal with Root that she eventually finished the entire plate. You've never seen her eat so fast in your entire life. You don't regret it though. Later, when she devoured you like those pancakes. Even later than that, in the shower as you scrubbed syrup from places syrup should not be. Totally worth having to wash your hair a second time after Root's “shampoo” which was mostly her pulling your soapy hair and bucking into your face.

 

While you got dressed, she sat on the bed in a towel and painted her nails. Watching in between coats; you and your less than graceful attempt of putting pants on while trying not to disturb the spatula shaped welts on your ass. It's probably an added bonus for her, seeing how her handy work makes you hiss and wince later on.

 

When you reach for your gun on the nightstand, it means you're done. It means you leave Root and go off to work. Something about this part has always been awkward for you, maybe it's because you never really know what to say. You stand by the bed and rub your neck like it's sore, waiting for some words to fumble from your mouth so you can go.

 

Root blows on her fingers before looking up to you and smiling so sweetly, like you're something cute and endearing. But you're not cute, and you growl at her under your breath for thinking that.

 

“Don't be a grumpy Sam,” she tuts.

 

“I'm not,” you say out of reflex, but then you really mull it over it your head. You're not grumpy at all. If you were, you would have funnel fed Root her breakfast earlier with no reward, scolded her now for dripping black polish on your sheets. You would have just left.

 

“Come here,” Root calls you closer and naturally you oblige. The way she kisses you goodbye, when you let her, it's never chaste. It pulls you in deep, it makes you want to drown in her. Through the minted toothpaste, you can still taste the maple syrup. Past that, her mouth and where it's already been today. And you could sink further, by the bruising force of her insatiable lips and how she uses them to selfishly claim you. You're already so late for work, but it's as if nothing outside of her seems to matter.

 

Before you leave, she takes you by the wrist. With the nail polish brush, she dabs a little black dot on the outside of your hand between the thumb and forefinger. You don't have to ask why, you already know what it's for. Root likes to mark you sometimes, in a possessive way with hickies or bruises, or in special ways like this. So you'll look it while you're gone and think of her. _Pfft._ Like that's any trouble for you already.

 

Something swells inside of you the moment you set foot outside. Something good, you think. A feeling like today might actually be alright. Not that everyday is terrible, it's just... different.

 

You don't quite know how to explain it. A good mood? Yeah, that's probably what it is, or your version of it at least. A good mood because you smiled at Root before you left, because you think you're frowning with less muscles as you walk down the street. The hand in your coat pocket isn't balled into a fist like it normally is, and you didn't use it to put that guys head through the train window for making that comment about your 'booty'.

 

As you hit the stairs leading down to headquarters, you hopefully wonder what the day has in store. What kind of number will greet you the moment you walk in. Whether or not it's simple or challenging, you'll get the job done regardless, but a part of you thinks it could be fun. You smirk at that, thinking if Finch ever heard you refer to saving lives in such a manner, he'd probably fire you. Then again... no, he'd just chew you out. Like he's going to now because you're thirty minutes late.

 

The first step you take into the subway, something hard crunches beneath your boot. You lift it up for inspection and there, stuck between the tread, is a Y button from a keyboard. _Odd_ , you think, until you look at the floor and see the rest of alphabet scattered across it. _Oh shit_ , when you find the rest of Harold's precious computer in shambles. There's a trail of plastic and metal bread crumbs leading from the desk to Bear's bed. And suddenly, it hits you...

 

It was your turn to let Bear out this morning. And you forgot.

 

_Well... "Fuck!"_

 


	2. Sorry not sorry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finch and Shaw learn new words today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy monday!
> 
> (said no one ever.)

Bear ate Harold's computer. The man gets pissed if you so much as think about eating in the vicinity of his desk, what is he going to make of this?

 

“Fuck!” you mutter under your breath, and a few more times for good measure. As you scramble to reconnect all the frayed wires and mash pieces of broken circuit boards back together, in the back of your mind, you think...

 

_Today is the day I get the boot._

 

_Oh god,_ how are you gonna pay the bills? You can't go back to being a make up girl at the mall, because fuck that. And you can't get your old job with the ISA again because, duh, they tried to kill you.  _Oh fuck_ . Root's going to be your sugar mama for the rest of your life.

 

 _No, no, it's not that bad._ _I'll just put this end here and-_ “Ahhhhffffffuck!”

 

Apparently, there was still some juice in this thing, enough to zap you right off your feet. When you come to a second later on the floor, Bear is licking your face and whining.

 

“Off! Get off!” you cough out, pushing him away just to sit up. When your head clears from the aftershock, it's then that you point the burnt finger of blame his way and call him a, “Bad dog!” Because he knows damn well what he did.

 

He whines pitifully and looks at you with those sad puppy eyes... and you can't be mad at him anymore.

 

You roll your eyes. “ _Ughh_ , kom hier,” and he prances over, knocks you down again, and attacks your face with kisses. “Why couldn't you have eaten Root's crap, huh?” you coo and rub his head. He's a dog, he's not perfect. It's more your fault than it is his anyway. If you had been here to walk him this morning, none of this would have happened.

 

“Look on the bright side,” you tell him and smile, “Now we can runaway together.” Which is increasingly becoming a plausible scenario in your mind.

 

The front gate opens and you both snap to attention as Harold walks in. You whisper to Bear, “Okay boy, just follow my lead and-” but when you look down he's not by your side anymore. He's run halfway across the station, leaving you to face the music alone. _The traitor..._

 

“Oh my...” Harold gawks, his mouth gaping in shock as he circles what used to be his beloved computer. “Oh dear... What on earth...” He seems at a loss of words when he looks to you. For a moment, you think he might start crying.

 

That moment quickly comes and goes, as quick as his face turns this angry red color. As his eyes narrow into thin slits _sharp enough to cut a week into nine days_ scowling directly at you.

 

Somewhere, there's an explanation. You could say... you were late because letting Root slather you up like a pancake was the only way to keep her alive. But Finch would believe that like he'd believe,

Dead Samaritan operatives rose from the grave with a blood thirsty lust for hard drives.

 

_I really need to stop watching zombie movies._

 

You're reaching deep within for that good lie of an excuse that will smooth everything over, but... you just can't find it right now. Not when Finch is burning your soul with his hateful laser eyes.

 

“Bear did it.”

 

Today is the day you witness Harold Fucking Finch use 'fuck' in every way, shape and form, in one fucking sentence.

 

This is worse than the time you accidentally blew up that hot dog cart in Time Square. No one died of course, but there was nothing you could say to Finch to make your argument any better. There's nothing you can really say now. He's busy fussing with his dead computer anyway, so you go to the lockers and proceed to stuff all your guns into one suitcase, prepare for the inevitable.

 

Harold finds you a few minutes later, sitting on the overloaded suitcase, trying to zip the damn thing up.

 

“Miss Shaw... What are you doing?”

 

“Well. I figured it'd be easier to put it all in one bag. That way, when you fire me, I won't have to come back for the rest,” you tell him, punching and shoving the lid like it will help.

 

“That's absurd-”

 

“No, it'll fit.” You strain as you pull, “Just gotta get this zipper-”

 

“It's absurd that you honestly believe I would terminate your contract over this,” he says, just as you've managed to close the zipper halfway. But you abandon everything in that moment, caring less that the zipper head bursts free from the line and ping pongs throughout the car.

 

 _Say what now?_ Baffled, you eye him. “You could have fooled me back there.” When his face was fire hydrant red and he dropped enough f-bombs to obliterate all of New York.

 

“Don't be ridiculous,” he chides. “Yes, I'm extremely-”

 

“Pissed to all hell?”

 

“ _Disappointed_ , Miss Shaw. By your tardiness, your failure to follow through with the responsibility you were tasked, and lastly, your complete and utter lack of consideration for my belongings.”

 

“I'll buy you a new one?” you offer. How much could it cost anyway? One... two...

 

Harold calls your bluff. “If you have twenty thousand dollars at your disposal, then by all means.”

 

You deadpan. _Is he serious?_ What the hell does someone do with a twenty grand computer? Fucking navigate space shuttles in orbit? Jesus! You suppose there _is_ a way to get all the money together. Perhaps, if you sold some of your guns... You glance to the giant suitcase on the floor, the one holding all of your precious babies that you may or may not have given names to, and then you quickly scratch out that horrible fucking joke of an idea. _Never_.

 

“As a matter of fact I do...” you say to Harold, and he seems rather surprised and on the verge forgiveness, until you open your mouth again. “Quick question though. Completely unrelated... Could I possibly get just a teeny tiny advance on my salary? Like half of it, no big deal, but that would be great.”

 

Harold sighs in that disappointing way you're all too familiar with. “This is precisely what I'm talking about Miss Shaw,” he says and walks away.

 

You follow after him. “Harold, wait.” He stops and turns to you. In his eyes, there's still some of that underlying anger from before and you know what you have to do now. The apology thing.

 

“Look, I'm sorry about your computer. Okay? It won't happen again.”

 

He curtly smiles. “Thank you Miss Shaw.” And just like that, it's over. Holy shit, you should say sorry more often, it's way easier. 

 

“Now that that's settled...” Harold pulls out a laptop from his bag (every good nerd has more than one computer) and he opens it on the desk. “We have a new number.”

 

 

Finch is giving you a less expansive rundown of the number when his cell phone rings. It's Reese on the other end. You know this because Harold always greets him in a different way from the rest of you, with somewhat more adoration. Right now though, you're less concerned about favorites and more concerned with the worried face Harold's making while he listens. You tense up thinking Reese is in some kind of trouble, but then you quickly uncoil when Harold ends the conversation with, “Do get some rest then.”

 

This good mood of yours, you feel it teetering when Harold explains. “It seems Mr. Reese will not be joining us today. I'm afraid he's fallen ill with the same terrible virus plaguing many others in this congested city.” Talk about taking the long way around.

 

“You could just say, _“He has the flu”._ See? I made the same point using less words?”

 

“I suppose,” Harold mutters into the laptop screen. “Anyway, I'm giving him the rest of the week to recuperate.”

 

Your eyes narrow, your lips purse tightly together in fear of some unsatisfactory sound relevant to Harold's last sentence will accidentally escape your mouth. Months ago, when you had the flu, he sang a different tune the one and only time you tried to call in sick. Something along the lines of, _“I'm sure whomever is threatening our number's life will resume their plans only until you are of sound health Miss Shaw.”_ No, seriously. That's what he really said. Word for word.

 

The pieces of computer spread across the floor serves as a reminder that you really need to bite your tongue today. So you shrug like you don't care and say, “Fine. Solo works for me.”

 

“I've just messaged Detective Fusco. He'll be here within the hour to pick you up Miss Shaw.”

 

“What?” You blurt out. He's kidding, he must be kidding. Right?

 

Stiff, serious, and so not in the mood to argue. You realize he's not kidding at all. He's as serious as the _No, dear god, no_ whisper that involuntarily leaves your lips. 

 

You shake your head, “Not him”. It's not that you don't like the guy, he just has a way about him... A talking your ear off about nonsense habit that annoys you to the deepest depths of homicidal rage and you really don't want Fusco to be the person you shoot today.

 

“I suppose I can call someone else then,” Harold says with slight irritation. “Another highly trained ex-government operative reformed under my employ.”

 

_Sarcasm detected Finch. Loud and clear._

 

This moody man has a point though. There is no one else to call. Except for Root maybe, but she's probably off doing Machine things. So you grumble, “Fine,” under your breath and leave it alone.

 

 

The next half hour is spent playing with Bear while Harold fixes his shit and throws mean sideways glances. What? Are you not supposed to love on Bear because he's grounded? Can dogs even be grounded? You wonder until you hear obnoxiously loud footsteps coming down the stairs. Fusco, he couldn't sneak up on a deaf person if he tried.

 

He trudges in like he's bothered to be here. Instead of saying 'Hello' or 'Good morning' like a normal person, he just nods and calls you _Grumpy._ But you're not grumpy today, or else you would have called him one of the less flattering names you've made up. 

 

Which is especially tempting when he sees the all the broken computer bits Finch is repairing and assumes that it was you having a hissy fit.

 

“Somebody piss in her wheaties this morning?” Fusco laughs. 

 

You pet Bear's head and wonder if he knows the Dutch command for  _sick balls._

 


	3. Curb hop your enthusiasm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Shaw exercises her mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Shusco banter because there isn't enough Shusco in my life. Or yours.

What's worse than being stuck in rush hour traffic?

 

Stuck riding shotgun to Lionel Fusco in rush hour traffic.

 

Every few minutes or so, the cruiser moves one measly fucking inch and he asks you another stupid question that randomly pops up in his head.

 

“You see the game last night?”

“No.”

“Y'know that Italian joint off Utica?

“No.”

“Ever had one of them, I dunno what it's called, cramps in your leg?”

“No.”

“Aliens from outer space are attacking the city, Shaw.”

“So.”

“You really suck a small talk.”

It's probably the nicest thing he's ever said about you. So you say thanks and go back to your quiet happy place of gazing out the window.

 

“What's the friggin hold up today?” Fusco beats on the steering wheel and lays on the horn. It snaps you out of this evil eye staring contest you were having with the Damien looking kid sitting with his tired mother at the bus stop. Sucks, you lost to the hell spawn. Sucks worse, it only ate up about twenty minutes or so.

 

He hits the horn again and it sets off this aggravating chain reaction of other drivers blaring their own horns. Next thing you know, you're caught in a obnoxious, slow moving, never ending, vehicular asshole parade.

 

Desperate for motion, you tell him to, “Just turn on the siren,” forgodsakes do something at least. Anything to unstick yourselves from this traffic jam nightmare.

 

“It speaks.”

 

“Only when 'It' finds something mutually annoying,” you mutter and rub your temples anxiously. “Flip the switch already.” Get a move on! Life is of the essence, time is short. Whatever. Carpe diem this shit and let's go.

 

“And then what?” he deadpans. “Sit here going _wee-ooo-wee-ooo_ for another half hour? You see any room Shaw? There's no where to go, so we're not going anywhere.”

 

Well, not with that attitude.

 

“There's a perfectly good sidewalk right here,” you point out. It's wide enough for the car and it just might get the two of you away from whatever has brought these already congested streets to a complete standstill.

 

“You want me to hop the curb?” he asks hysterically, like what you've just implied was some kind of joke. Albeit, it's hard for people to tell whether or not you're being sarcastic. But Lionel should know by now. When you tell him you want to do something that sounds stupid or reckless, you damn well mean it.

 

You raise a brow, challenging him. “Is that a problem for you?”

 

“Listen. That fast and furious shit you and Wonder Boy pull don't fly with the NYPD. Especially in a non-emergency situation. The last thing I need is some teenybopper with a camera phone snapgramin' my mug all over the friggin internet.”

 

You smirk and shake your head. Even though you're getting up there age wise, at least you know the correct term for what all these _teenyboppers_ are into these days _._ An argument for another time, you suppose. Right now, there are greater things to convince Fusco of.

 

“Oh but this is an emergency Lionel. See, if I don't get to shoot something in the next five minutes, my trigger finger gets all itchy. And when that happens, well, lets just say you don't wanna be anywhere near me.”

 

“Tough. I'm not getting suspended because you can't scratch an itch or whatever. Put some cream on it and deal.”

 

_Wimp._

 

“Fine,” you shrug. “I'll do it.” For the number. _Yeah... that's right._ You'll drive recklessly through pedestrian traffic for the sake of the number. For no other reason and definitely not for your own amusement. _Yep. Mmhmm._

 

“Hell no, you're not driving my car!” He says, like you behind the wheel would only lead to catastrophe. And it might, you don't doubt that. But at least it would lead you somewhere.

 

“Technically, it's not your car,” you remind him. “It's property of the NYPD.”

 

“Same difference.”

 

Worth a shot.

 

“Lionel,” you sigh, “You need to understand something. What we do trumps whatever's happening a mile down the road. For all we know, it's some poor construction worker fallen down a manhole, playing baby Jessica and holding up traffic so he can have his fifteen minutes.”

 

He just scoffs and rolls his eyes, and you feel like you're losing him. Time to change tactics again.

 

“Think of it like this. You could get into way more trouble for all the other shit you do with us. But you do it anyway because-”

 

“Blackmail's the darnest thing,” he gripes some more, so you slap his shoulder.

 

“No!” Yeah sure, Harold once put him in between a rock and hard place, but that was years ago. _Get over it Lionel._ He could have stopped helping the team as soon as Samaritan went down. So why didn't he? You know why.

 

“Because you like doing it, that's why! So stop pretending that you don't wanna hop that fucking curb right there because I know you do!”

 

Did it work? It's hard to tell. He's got a better too tired, _too old for this shit_ , face than you do sometimes. 

 

He sighs heavily. “Fine. But if I hit a bag lady, I'm blaming you.”

 

_Yes! Way to go Fusco!_

 

He flips on the lights and cuts the wheel. A few maneuvers later, you're cruising along the sidewalk, bypassing all the chumps sitting in traffic. At the pace of snail though, because Fusco doesn't want to hit anybody.

 

“Could you go faster?” you groan, hanging halfway out the window in boredom.

 

“Could you roll that up? It's the middle of winter for christ sake.”

 

“I could...” you muse. “If I wanted all my brain cells to die from inhaling that cheap aftershave.” You glance at him frowning dead ahead and tease him some more. “You know it's only supposed to go on your face right? You're not supposed to bathe in it.”

 

“ _Hmpf_. You don't exactly smell like roses neither.”

 

_What's that supposed to mean?_

 

You nonchalantly sniff yourself while he's not looking. Lavender shampoo... body wash... laundry detergent... what the hell is he talking about?

 

“Whatever, I smell great.”

 

“You smell like an IHOP on free pancake day,” he chuckles. 

 

_Oh god damnit._ You knew Root was too liberal with the syrup this morning. Great. Now you're going to smell like breakfast food for the rest of the day. Which, when you reconsider, may not be the worst thing in the world. Because... One: breakfast food is fucking awesome. Two: the smell of maple syrup reminds you of Root and all the weird yet fantastic things she's done to you this morning. 

 

“By the way Aunt Jemima...”

 

_Great. Another nickname. But I already have so many...._

 

“It ain't cheap. It's Hai Karate, and I happen to like it,” Fusco says a little too defensively.

 

“How? They stopped making that shit in the 80's.” _And do you wanna know why Lionel? Because it smells fucking terrible._

 

“Yeah well,” he shrugs, “I gotta guy.”

 

You roll your eyes. Fusco has a guy for everything. Need an old stereo for a 1977 Cadillac? Some slightly used furniture with minor questionable stains? How about tickets to the amateur league baseball game out in bum fuck Jersey? Worry no more because Lionel Fusco has a guy for that!

 

“Is it the same guy who cuts your hair?” you ask.

 

“Yeah why?”

 

You shake your head. “I think you need a new guy.”

 

 

You think about installing sirens and lights in your own car, because when people see them, they just get out of the way. It's like Moses parting the sea of pedestrians on the sidewalk. You should travel through the city like this more often.

 

Everything's going smoothly, that is, until you hit one little bump in the road, in the form of train hopping traveler looking punk. He pretends not to notice that there's this two ton vehicle flashing and wailing sirens right behind him as he walks like the sun shines from his ass.

 

Fusco roles down the window and sticks his head out. “Official police business sir!” he shouts, “I'm gonna have to ask you to clear a path!”

 

And how does he respond? Like they all do; with a sneer and dirty tattooed middle finger in the air. With no respect whatsoever. And yes, you too somewhat possess that same attitude in the face of authority. To you, police officers are sometimes pesky obstacles in your path. And the laws they enforce, you often think them as funny little suggestions that you have no intention of obeying. But this guy right here, he just fucked with the only cop you have the least problem with. He flipped off Lionel. The only person allowed to do that, is you.

 

“Run'em over.”

 

Fusco ignores you and continues to shout for the man's attention. But “Sir! Sir!” Obviously isn't working.

 

“I'll take care of this,” you tell him, unbuckling your belt and reaching for the door. Fusco stops you before it opens.

 

“That way better not fall in the realm of grievous bodily harm, Shaw,” he says with an err on the side of caution, but mostly with a fear that you'd make this part of the sidewalk a crime scene for him to deal with later.

 

You nod and agree to those terms, even though your way would be more efficient. Still, he feels the need to remind you through the window, to be, “Professional and courteous!”

 

 _Pfft._ Just what does he think you are? Some kind of loose canon who could off at any moment? Like you aren't someone capable of practicing restraint? Does he even realize how much you've been holding back already? And it's not even noon yet.

 

Besides, this isn't some deadly sensitive operation. It's herding a hippie from one part of the sidewalk to the other. _Piece of cake..._

 

“Hey buddy!” you call out and the obstruction of a man turns around. See, you're already off to a good start, referring to him in a friendly way to get his attention. Next up, calmly identify the problem and offer a rational solution all while maintaining a 'Professional and courteous' demeanor.

 

“We're in a bit of hurry here,” you say with a fake smile. “Would you mind stepping out of the way so that we can pass?” You top it all off with a, “Please”. Finch would be so proud of you, finally putting all of his conflict resolution lectures to good use.

 

He points a finger your way, opens his gangling mouth and proceeds to blow you're entire plan out of the water.

 

“You cops think you can do whatever you want don't you?” he shouts. “Comin here, telling me to shut up and get outta the way! Well I got news for you _officer,_ this is a sidewalk. I'm free to walk on it however I please! And I will not let you infringe on my right to do so!”

 

You're racking your brain trying to figure out what went wrong. If you skipped an important step or something. Then you realize, it's not you, it's him. You did everything right, but of course it's going to fall short on this caliber of humanity. The  _Don't tread on me_ hybrids spliced with super privilege, the misguided sprinkled with misinformation and doused in delusion type.

 

“I'm not moving for a couple of pigs who think they're more important than everybody else! Now _would you mind..._ fucking off!”

 

You glance at the car and give Fusco this _Can I shoot him now?_ look, and he furiously shakes his head. That's right, you're supposed to shoot your mouth off instead of your gun. But what could you possibly say to make this guy see things your way.

 

Oddly, you think about what other people might do in this situation. John would probably take your side and cap this asshole's knees, so that's out. Finch would apologize profusely and go on to repeat this cycle of trying rationalize with a potato sack, and you've already said sorry one too many times today. 

 

But Root... if she couldn't charm the pants off somebody to get what she wanted, she'd scare the ever loving crap out of them instead. 

 

“That wasn't a very nice thing to say,” you tell him. He just crosses his arms and bows up even more. How cute.

 

“Last time I checked, it wasn't against the law to be rude to cops,” he spats.

 

_Ha!_ If it were, you'd be on death row for all the rude things you say just to Lionel. 

 

“You're right, it isn't,” you shrug. “Thing is though, I'm not a cop.” You see him shift slightly and there's a bit of confusion reflecting in his eyes as they narrow. Now to really open up this line of communication.

 

“In fact,” you go on, leaning in just a little closer, “I really, _really_ don't think you wanna know what I am or what I'm capable of. Just know this. I'm not the kind of person who likes to use words instead of violence. And I'm certainly not the kind of person who's going to feel bad as I'm picking pieces of you from my front bumper.”

 

When he gulps, you know it's working and you think you've finally figured out the method to Root's madness. Unrelenting direct eye contact: Check. Up close and personal talk: Check. Now for some sadistic grinning and harsh ultimatums.

 

“But since I'm feeling so very generous today, I'll give you second chance to consider your options. You can either walk freely out of my fucking way, or, I will make sure you never _ever_ walk again.”

 

And if that doesn't make him sweat in the middle of winter...

 

“The choice is yours. Honestly though, I hope you stand _riiight_ where you are. That way, I can finally cross vehicular homicide off my to do list.”

 

“Damn, alright!” he croaks as he backs away with his hands up. “I'll move!”

 

You feel very satisfied as he retreats to the other end of the sidewalk closest to the buildings. Fusco pulls the car up and you open the door, but before you get in, hippie punk decides to say one last thing.

 

“Geez, you don't gotta be a psycho about it,” he grumbles under his breath, and you pause in the door frame. Oh what little he knows...

 

“Actually,” you turn around and chime in. “I'm a sociopath.” There's a difference and he needs to know. “If I were a 'psycho about it', you'd have been street meat by now.”

 

You think if he cowered anymore, his flimsy spine would fuse into the brick wall of that building. Regardless, you tell him to “Have a nice day!” and then give him a little wink as the car goes by.

 

“I'm surprised,” Fusco astonishingly admits.

 

“Never underestimate the power of words, Lionel.” They work just as well as bullets sometimes. Psychological gun shot wounds can be harder to mend, you theorize.

 

“Yeah, well. How you managed to pull that off without sending him to the hospital is beyond me.”

 

“What can I say,” you shrug. “I'm in a good mood today.”

 

“Ha! You in a good mood,” he laughs. “Now _that's_ surprising!”

 

 

If Fusco doesn't already have a guy to read him his last rights, then he's going to need one. Soon. Very soon.

 


	4. Sierra Tango Foxtrot Uniform

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Root and Fusco like to ignore warning labels, especially the ones that read "Contents under pressure" and "Do not puncture."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains:   
> Equal parts Shoot and Shusco banter.   
> Fluff and reference to smut.

“How come John gets sick days? I don't even get sick says,” Fusco complains from behind the wheel. You've long since left the sidewalk and have taken back to the streets. Over the river and through the hoods, just a few more blocks until you reach the destination of your number.

 

“You're asking the wrong person,” you reply in short. Maybe Finch and Reese are having a tawdry love affair behind your back, maybe that's why they baby each so much. Who knows?

 

“I spend all my down time and then some helping you guys out y'know. One of these days, my lieutenant's gonna wanna know what the hell I'm doing, taking off so much.”

 

“I dunno,” you shrug. “Just tell him... you serve a better purpose or something.”

 

“Nah, that'd sound like I was in some type of cult.”

 

“Maybe we are in a cult Lionel,” you smirk, eyeing him cryptically from the passenger seat. “You, me. Finch and Reese... we're the followers. Root is the messiah and that annoying bird tweeting in her ear, our god almighty.” _OoooOooo creepy._ When you break it down though, isn't it really? A small group of nobodies carrying out the will of a super being that no one else knows about.

 

“Yeah right,” Fusco scoffs at all that. “Cuckoo's Nest my friggin messiah?”

 

That name for Root doesn't even bother you. Nor do the other clever little nicknames Fusco's made for her. After all, she is a little crazy. You know this first hand and you think it's one of the things you like most about her.

 

“If someone says anything about Kool-Aid though, I'm outta here,” Fusco adds.

 

“Is that a promise?”

 

 

A short while later, you make Fusco stop the car. “This is the place,” you say, pointing to a small shop within a strip of many along a busy avenue. The moment he wedges the cruiser in a parallel spot, you're shoving in an earwig and bolting for the door.

 

“Our number works at a printing shop?” He asks right before you slam the car door shut. You roll your eyes as you click the comm piece on.

 

“ _No Lionel_ , I'm just picking up the Christmas cards I'm sending out this year,” you respond far on the sarcastic side. “Would you like to know what _yours_ says?”

 

“ _Seasons Greetings from Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum?_ ” he chuckles through the ear bud.

 

You throw a glare over your shoulder as you walk. “Letting you live to see another Christmas is the gift I keep trying to return,” you reply. And as you open the shop door, you add, “Happy Holidays. Go fuck yourself.”

 

You snicker because, well, you think you're funny. But the older woman standing on the other side of door, she doesn't laugh or find you funny at all. In fact, she probably thinks you're a trashed mouthed hussy, judging from her expression. Her face lacks the holiday cheer everyone's obsessing over. In it's place, an appalling look of complete disgust. It's so bitter and mean, you're tempted to ask her how she learned to scowl like that... and if she'll give you lessons.

 

But you shake your head and say, “I wasn't talking to you,” as if that would help any. She just harrumphs snobbishly past you.

 

“ _Looks like someone's gettin a big fat lump of coal this year.”_

 

“I hope she uses it to thaw out her frigid sense of humor.”

 

“ _I wasn't talkin about her...”_ You deadpan Fusco through the windshield and see him holding his hands up. _“Wanna coffee?”_

 

“Why not,” you mutter as you step inside, through your teeth this time, because if there's anymore unwanted attention directed your way, you think it might end badly.

 

As you peruse down the aisle of greeting cards for every occasion, you spot the number behind the counter. A clean cut man in his thirties with a bright smile and an infectiously positive attitude, at least towards his customers. But maybe you should keep your distance for the time being.

 

You spy in secret, watching him over the tops of the shelves, trying to decide if he's a victim or a perpetrator just by outer appearances. It's obvious to lean towards the vic side of the spectrum, because this guy's just so nice and uppity. It's hard to fathom anyone having a problem with him.

 

Well, except you. The alarm in your head is screaming _Perp! Perp! Perp!_ For reasons that remain unknown at this juncture, but you choose to ignore it for now. It's better to be objective and not jump to conclusions... no matter how much his overall _everything_ makes you just cringe on the inside. 

 

He wanders into the back room for a customer and great, you think. You can take a little break from idle thoughts of wanting to knock the stupid smile from his face and pass the time some other way. As you flip through the turnstyle of Christmas cards, of course, you can't help but think about Root.

 

Though you don't especially care for the holiday, Root absolutely loves the crap out of it.

 

Maybe she never had a good Christmas as a child. Maybe she was too busy being a killer-for-hire to celebrate it as an adult. Whatever reason, Root seems like she's compensating for all the lost time.

 

Any day now, you're going to come home to the largest Christmas tree sitting in the middle of your living room, decorated out the ass with ornaments and tinsel and lights brighter than Time Square. There will be two stockings hanging over the radiator with your names hand stitched into the fabric. There will be holiday music playing and gingerbread baking and ugly sweater wearing and presents under the mammoth tree.

 

She will turn your world into a winter wonderland, but you'll let her god damnit. You'll drop everything for random make out sessions when she blindsides you with mistletoe. You'll tend to all burn wounds and cuts on her hands after she engineers the mini train that circles your entire apartment. You'll shut up, sit on the couch and drink the overly eggy eggnog, and watch _It's a Wonderful Life_ with her for the hundredth time.

 

Why? It's your gift to Root. Because it makes her happy. If you can somehow facilitate that, then you guess it makes you feel this content thing she wants you believe is also called happiness. All bets will be off though, if she tries to make you wear the elf hat like last year.

 

There's this cheesy card that you spot and it makes you scoff. 

 

“Everyday with you is a gift. _Pssh._ Please.” 

 

Where are the better cards? The real ones. If you ever get Root a card it's going to say,  _“Everyday you give me mind blowing orgasms while choking me out is a gift.”_ Or something along those lines. If that was your thing. 

 

It's not that you don't ever do nice things for Root. You let her drive sometimes, you make her food, you're honest and open to all her wildness in bedroom. You protect her. Gestures that show you care mean a lot more to her than material goods.

 

However, Root actually likes to give you things. Stolen things mostly. Guns, cars, and items of the intimate variety being top on that list. Not just on Christmas though; she doesn't need one day out of the year as an excuse to surprise you.

 

After the “Anniversary” dinner, she broke into the valet box and swiped a set of car keys. _Surprise!_ It's a Ferrari! And the inside of it was absolutely destroyed after you two were done with it. Oh, and when Root came back from Germany, she gave you a kiss and handed you a 50. cal long rifle bullet. You were confused as to why at first, until she opened the trunk of her car and _Surprise!_ it just so happens to go with this super nice sniper rifle that you need for a mission, which is _Surprise!_ Happening right now!

 

You're still trying to live down that involuntary squeal of excitement when she handed “Gunter” over to you.

 

 

“Finding everything alright ma'am?”

 

All of a sudden, the number's not in the back room anymore, he's standing right next to you. If you had been watching him instead of drooling over Root, you would have seen him coming. You would have not been caught by surprise, and you definitely would have not wound your arm back out of reflex preparing to deck this guy.

 

“Yeah, I'm just...”

 

He squints at you, “You're Sam right?” he asks.

 

Well, shit. He knows who you are, you're cover's somehow been blown. On the bright side, you think it might be okay now if you decked him. You're about to go into gung ho defense mode and do just that, until he decides to elaborate in the very last moment.

 

“Your friend called earlier. Said a woman 'short, dark and frowning' would be picking up some sample invitations.”

 

_Friend? What friend?_ And then it hits you. 

 

_Root_ . You forget sometimes how far her reach extends, especially with her other girlfriend always chattering in her ear.

 

“Yeah, the uh... invitations,” you say, snapping your fingers and shooting one his way. Like you know exactly what the hell he's talking about. But you feel more at ease as he happily runs into the back of the store again to fetch whatever Root's ordered. It better not be invitations to a party for your birthday coming up. There will be no celebration of your birth.

 

“ _You got em_?” Fusco asks. _Hold your damn horses_ , you haven't even made it to the counter yet. Fortunately, the number's just enough in range for you to blue jack his phone. 

 

“Cloning his cell now,” you whisper.

 

“ _Five friggin dollars for a cup of coffee, can you believe it_?” Fusco irritatingly adds and you shake your head. The man complains about everything. _It's too friggin cold. It's too friggin hot. It's too friggin nice outside._ Fussy Fusco. Hey, you just thought of another good nickname for him.

 

“ _Used to be 75 cents when I started out. Heck, you flash a badge sometimes and it was free._ ”

 

“What was it like being a cop in the 1950's?”

 

“ _Hey, I'm not that old_.”

 

Then, out of nowhere, again, “Here you are!” the number exclaims. Was it Stan or Dan? Whatever he's called, he's a sneaky little fucking jack in the box, isn't he?

 

With a big smile, he gives you a small package neatly wrapped in brown paper. When you start fishing into your pockets for some money, he just waves you off. “Don't worry, your friend took care of it.”

 

You fiddle with the package, wondering what's inside and debating whether or not it pertains to Root's deviance. Invitations to... a sexy scavenger hunt? An all out fuck fest for just the two of you? You don't put anything past her imagination.

 

“ _That's not all she likes to take care of...”_

 

“What was that?”

 

You look up with wide eyes and find his a bit on the perplexed side. Did you actually say that out loud? Has Root fogged your brain up so much that you can't control the words coming out of your mouth?

 

“Nothing!” you say, and proceed to give him the biggest smile of your entire existence, backing away and telling him, “Thank you soooooo much!” And it seems to do the trick. After the awkwardness wanes, he flashes his own teeth and waves goodbye. Then it becomes a back and forth of farewells until, thank god, you're finally outside and your face can go back to normal.

 

You rub at your sore cheeks. Apparently, it takes more muscles to frown than to smile, say the studies, but damn, does your face hurt. It feels like you've just given it a hard work out, and you're still not convinced those studies are entirely accurate.

 

 

Fusco hands you the coffee when you come back to the car. Before you can even take the first sip, he's scratching you for information. So you whip out your phone and humor him.

 

“No contacts, no texts, no incoming or outgoing calls.” Well, that's certainly interesting. “He must have a burner phone,” you tell Fusco. But for what reason, you wonder. Maybe this guy isn't the bundle of sunshine he appears to be.

 

“Great. Now what?” Fusco asks.

 

Here comes the most exciting part of work. “We wait.” For something to happen, which could be minutes or hours from now. At least there's coffee in the meantime.

 

You bring it to your lips for that sensational first sip of the day... and then you almost spit the entire mouthful onto the dashboard.

 

“Ugh!” you grimace after regretfully swallowing it down. There's enough sugar in it to put you into a diabetic coma. You must have told Fusco a hundred times how you take your coffee, and he still doesn't get it right.

 

“What's with you?” Fusco asks, taking the lid off his cup and blowing the steam away. _His_ is black. Wouldn't it be easier to remember then? 

 

“Nothing,” you grumble, setting the coffee into the cup holder where it will stay.

 

“What? You don't like coffee all of sudden?”

 

“That was coffee?” you scoff. Because to you, that was just hot sugar water.

 

“For five bucks it better be. And you better drink it.” He points a finger at you, which just so happens to belong to the hand that's holding his drink. The cup of black coffee, so hot the steam rising from it's unlidded container could turn the inside of this car into a sauna, being haphazardly waved around on your side of the center console.

 

What you feared would happen... happens. When the car is suddenly jostled forward, that piping cup of coffee falls from Fusco's grip and lands squarely in your lap.

 

The two of you shout and swear and leap out of your seats. Fusco, because some asshole's just hit his car and he's gone to deal with them. You, because your crotch is on fucking fire and _Dear sweet jesus it burns, oh fuck it burns!_ And you feel like you should stop, drop, and roll in the snow.

 

While Fusco argues with the other driver, you sit leaning against a blue metal mailbox with a giant mountain of the good cold stuff shoveled into your lap. You could care less about all the passerby's looking at you oddly, spread eagle in the sidewalk snow. Right now, you care more about cooling off; your crotch and most of all, your head. Over and over again, you tell yourself that it was just an accident, that when Fusco comes back you are NOT going to shoot him.

 

“Fuck!” you beat the back of your head against the mailbox and sigh. Breathe until the entire lower half of your body is numb from the cold. When you think it's okay to move, you get up, shake off all the excess and stomp back to the car.

 

On the ground beside the door you left hanging open, is the package from the card shop. Having been sitting in your lap before the _accident_ , you believe it took most of the brunt as it's drenched with coffee. Fusco doesn't look like he'll be done anytime soon, so you think now is a better time than ever to see what Root's up to. Maybe it will take your mind off of wanting to kick Fusco's ass.

 

You tear off the wrapping paper and open the lid. Turns out it actually is just a bunch of invitations.

 

“You are cordially invited to... _huh?_ ” This can't be right, so you go to the next card. “...celebration of our union? _What the fuck?_ ” and you still can't believe it, not even when you read the parts about you and Root's _holy matrimony._

 

Still shocked as to what's happening right now, you shake your head, thinking that you must be interpreting it all wrong. The denial quickly wears off though, when you get to the last card. It's one of those audio chipped cards. When you open it up, it plays a jingle that sounds like 'Here Comes the Bride'. You immediately slam it shut, so _Done done_ _d-Done!_

 

So you call Root. Actually, you facetime her. She needs to see the look on your face when you tell her _“No fucking way.”_

 

 

“ _Hey sweetie,_ ” her voice chimes in unison with her smile. “ _I was just thinking about you_.”

 

“Root, what gives?” You burst, cutting straight to the point and she laughs, like she knows exactly what's got you so up in arms.

 

“ _Personally, I like the Vellum stationary with the Ambassador Script_.”

 

What _vellum_ is? You have no clue. What you do know, Root subtlety needs some major work. Among other things.

 

“Is this your idea of dropping a hint?” Or dropping a megaton bomb. “Is this some kind of sick joke?”

 

“ _Oh Sameen...”_ she says patronizingly, _“I thought we were over the coy phase of our relationship.”_

 

“What fucked up phase is this then?” You hold up a crumpled invitation to the camera before tossing it on the ground.

 

She waggles a brow.  _“Where's that spirited sense of humor I'm so fond of?”_

 

You relax a little. Ok, so it was just a joke. It's still not funny though.

 

“ _Besides, I don't need a piece of paper and diamond ring to affirm that you're all mine.”_

 

You roll your eyes and glance away. “Yeah, yeah...”

 

“ _But if tying the proverbial knot is something you might interested in, then...”_

 

“Root!” You cut her off, say her name like a warning, glare into the camera with eyes full of every threat you've ever thrown her way. And still, she looks at you like you're cute.

 

“ _But Sameen, wouldn't I look so ravishing dressed all in white?”_

 

It's like she knew your mind would travel back in time to this morning. Like she knew you'd immediately think of her sprawled across the bed wearing your plain white (far too small for her) t-shirt and likewise panties. Her hand hidden somewhere beneath the fabric, biting her bottom lip and looking to you with lustful eyes as she teased herself...

 

“ _Heheh,_ yeah.” You're not aware that you're grinning like an idiot until it's too late. The recovery, “No!” is less than convincing. 

 

“ _Think about it Shaw. Our hotel honeymoon... I've always wanted you to carry me across a threshold.”_

 

“I've done that plenty of times,” you scoff. When Root gets hurt, which is a lot, you sometimes carry her up the stairs too. And sometimes, you tuck her in bed... sometimes.

 

“ _Yes, but was I wearing Vera Wang?”_

 

“How should I know?”

 

“ _Oh, you'd know. When you tear ten thousand dollars of dress off my body and use it as firewood.”_ she says, giving you a smoldering look. _“It'll keep us warm while we... consummate on every surface of the room.”_

 

You smirk goofily, “I'd like to _consummate_ your brains out right now...”

 

“ _Is that so?”_

 

[Extend fingers. Flatten hand. Insert palm into face]

 

_Geez,_ you sound like an idiot, and probably look like one too. You're not sure if Root's trying to seduce you, marry you, or fuck with you. All in all, the end result is you acting like a googly eyed giggling school girl, and you're not happy about it. 

 

“Unfortunate for you though, I've just decided to save myself until marriage.” Jokes on her now, you're never getting married.

 

“ _Speaking of recent and purely coincidental decisions... “_ Root says, arching a sly brow. _“I've just decided that this week will be sexy spring cleaning week. We'll see how long you save yourself then.”_

 

“It's winter Root,” you contradict her. “And since when do you clean anything?”

 

“ _Hmm,”_ she presses a finger to her pursed lips, thinking, _“So I should just return that skimpy French maid costume when it gets here?”_

 

“Yeah, you shou-” _Whoa-whoa-whoa!_ Wait a second. _What?_ Time out! What's this about a maid costume? A French one?

 

Would you even be into that?

 

_Yes._

 

“I mean...” you shrug, seemingly indifferent, “if you already ordered it, then-”

 

“ _No you're absolutely right Shaw.”_ she interrupts. _“It would look silly on me anyway. Can you even imagine me wearing such a thing?”_

Yes...

“ _Better yet, can you imagine me bent over on my hands and knees...”_

Yesssss.

“ _That oh so short skirt riding so dangerously high as I strive and grind away at all of those... untouched, tricky... hard to reach sensitive areas in your tight..._

 

_Oh_

 

“ _...filthy...”_

 

_my_

 

“ _...little...”_

 

_fucking_

 

“ _Apartment.”_

 

_GOD DAMNIT ROOT!_

 

That was mean, even for her. You groan in a heightened frustration skyrocketed into sexual, wiping the sweat from your forehead as Root simpers through the screen.

 

“ _A little hot under the collar?”_ she says, sounding rather pleased with herself. She's got good reason to be so cocky. You're not entirely sure if this wetness in your pants is entirely melted snow, or the product of her seductive voice saying all those obscene things to you. 

 

The reply you give her is a huff of hot and bothered air.

 

Root frowns.  _“Well, there's no need to get all touchy, Sameen. I wasn't really going to send it back.”_

 

“I'm not being _touchy_ ,” you argue. “It's just...” Nothing. Nevermind.

 

“ _Is something wrong?”_ Root asks. Funny how she can go from smug to worried so quickly. 

 

You tell her, “No,” plain and simple, intending to leave it at that. The way she scrutinizes your delivery of the word though, you think your poker face has more tells than you realize.

 

“ _Bad day?”_

 

No. Maybe. The day isn't over yet. You're hoping something good will happen later to balance out all the shit thrown at you.

 

“Maybe it's just not panning out the way I expected,” you reply. You're not even going to mention Harold's computer or the coffee incident. Because one, Root's other girlfriend is probably going to tell her eventually. Two, if shit happens in threes, you don't wanna jinx yourself.

 

When you reflect, “I mean, it started out fine.”

 

“ _You bet your sweet syrupy behind it did.”_ Root winks. 

 

“I guess I fucked up a little. But, I really think if John hadn't of called in sick then-” 

 

“ _Interesting...”_ Root remarks. You thought she was trying to shush you at first, but you peer a little closer and notice the distance in her eyes as they trail far and wide. Odd, she only makes that face when the Machine is speaking to her. 

 

When you inquire about what she's found to be so interesting, she just bats a hand and shoos your question away, saying it's nothing you need to worry about anyway.

 

“ _I'm sure whatever's ailing Tarzan is just one of those 24 hour bugs. So turn that frown upside down. I have a good feeling he'll be back sooner than you think,”_ she tells you, in that all too sure of herself tone again.

 

“Wow Root. That didn't sound foreshadowy at all,” you sarcastically reply.

 

“ _Oh! Guess what I'm doing right now.”_

 

“Deflecting.” Root frowns, so you suck it up and humor her. “Alright. Um... you are... Hacking the Pentagon... masturbating?” She shakes her head at both. “Masturbating while hacking into the Pentagon?”

 

“ _If only...”_ she exhales tenderly. _“Actually, I'm in the middle of interrogating a particularly nasty terrorist cell in Maryland.”_

 

Ooh that sounds like fun. “I'll trade you.”

 

“ _We're having the best time,”_ she bristles.

 

Throughout the entire conversation, Root had the camera aimed so that you couldn't see anything but her face... and maybe just a bit of her chest in that low cut shirt... But now, she's positioned it farther away, giving you a better glimpse of her, the warehouse in the background. Oh, and the half conscious man sitting in the chair beside her.

 

“ _Say hello to Sam, Alfred!”_

 

Root takes one of his arms by the wrist and proceeds to shake it back and forth, to make it look like he's waving to you. It's so utterly demented, it's almost laughable.

 

Anyway, you wiggle your fingers and wave back, speechless. Your girlfriend really is the perky psycho. You have to hang up though, because Fusco's trudging his way back. And Root just blew you a kiss... with Alfred's hand... and you don't know how to respond to that.

 

When you get back in the car, you don't feel much like hurting Fusco anymore. Even though your butt's soggy and your thighs still sting.

 

“Tourists, go figure,” he mutters as he gets in. “You get anything yet?” he asks, pointing to your phone linked with the number's.

 

“Besides the second degree burns to my lady parts and no apology whatsoever?” you reply sourly. “No Lionel. I didn't get anything.”

 

“Geez, you act like I did that on purpose.”

 

 

“What's this?” He picks up one of the invitations you had previously tossed into the car. “You and Cocoa Puffs finally taking the plunge?” he chuckles. “Well, good luck with that.”

 

You snatch it back from him and shove all of the infernal invitations into the glove box, to be thrown in the garbage later.

 

“So... which one of ya's is gonna wear the dress?”

 

It's a slow turn of your head in his direction, with eyes widened and jaw slacked in sheer horror of the words falling from his mouth and continuing to pour out.

 

“Personally, and all traditions aside, I think you both could pull it off. I saw a wedding like that once on the Ellen show... not bad.”

 

[Close fist. Punch self in face. Repeat as needed for desired amnesia effects]

 

He goes on to ask if you and Root plan on having children. And if so, would it be through adoption or if you two would do the 'turkey baster thing'. Before you know it, that homicidal urgency creeps up on you again and hits you with a fiery vengeance. This is it, you think. You have to kill him.

 

Thankfully, your cell goes off in the mere moments before reaching for a weapon. “Oh thank god,” you exasperate, scrambling to grab it off the dash.

 

“It's time?” you say aloud.

 

“Time for what?”

 

“I don't fucking know, Lionel, that's just what his text said!” you harangue him.

 

Just then, you spot the number, Stan or Dan, leaving the store in a hurry. With a briefcase and without his regular sunny disposition. You pay more mind to the briefcase though. It's way too long and tactical looking for someone like him. Then it hits you.

 

“Ha! I knew it! Perp!” you exclaim, with more enthusiasm than Fusco is prepared for. He eyes you like you've gone temporarily insane.

 

“You wanna tone down the jubilee for a second and explain?”

 

“You see that case he's got? That's an H-S precision armored case. Spec ops uses them for transpo. You could throw it out of moving truck or an airplane and the contents inside wouldn't so much as scratch.”

 

“What kind of contents we talkin about?”

 

“The long barreled, high caliber, serious damage from afar kind,” you tell him, And when he fails to put two and two together, you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose in disappointment.

 

“For godssakes, Lionel, he's got a rifle.”

 

Or a mini rocket launcher. Exciting, isn't it?

 


	5. Does not play well with others

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Often comes to class unprepared.   
> Often uses foul language.  
> Often starts confrontations with other students. 
> 
> Parent teacher conference requested.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was really trying to keep a regular posting schedule. Sorry this took longer. Eh What can i say? Life?

Tailing a number is supposed to be one of the easiest parts of a mission for you.

 

It's supposed to be, however, the task takes a turn for the extremely difficult when tailing average Joe in average foot traffic suddenly becomes a game of 'Where _the fuck_ is Waldo' in a rather unexpected large crowd. And by large crowd, you mean like half a million give or take a few thousand.

 

Where did all these people come from? What are they doing here? And why the hell are they all so angry? You have no idea.

 

You also have no idea where Stan-Dan and his suspicious case have slipped off to in this sea of screaming protesters. But eventually, you figure out, no matter how good of a human snow plow Fusco is, pushing and hollering his way past tightly packed shoulders, there's no way you're going to find the number without a little outside help.

 

You don't wanna do it. After the incident this morning, you were dead set on handling the case without Finch and perhaps avoiding him for the rest of the day. But given the current situation; that there's possibly a grinning maniac with a gun on the loose (who _isn't_ Root), you think it's better to swallow whatever pride's left and give him a call. That, and Fusco was very firm on you not clearing a path by shooting your gun into the air. He's no fun.

 

“ _Oh good, Miss Shaw. I was just about to call you for an update. How are you and Detective Fusco fairing?”_

 

You glance at Fusco, your interim partner for the day; one arm coolly leaned up against a lamp post, the other casually resting on his hip, by sheer coincidence, exposing his shiny badge to the uninterested soccer mom he's trying to flirt with.

 

“I don't know...” You sigh and shake your head, “what I would do without him.”

 

“ _And in regards to Mr. Griggs?”_

 

_Who? Oh, the number, Stan-Dan._

 

“Well, I think it's safe to assume he's gonna pull a Lee Harvey on somebody.” The when, the where, and the why have yet to be determined. Among other things...

 

“ _Oh my. I take it you have everything under control then.”_

 

It almost sounds like he's asking if you've managed to fuck everything up yet. Where's the confidence Finch? Where's the trust?

 

...Good fucking question.

 

“It certainly will be...” you tell him, clearing your throat and rushing out the rest, “As soon as you track his phone and give me his location-”

 

“ _You've lost him?”_ Finch gasps. 

 

“Temporarily _misplaced_ ,” you interject defensively. “There's some kind of parade going on right now and he just...”

 

“ _Vanished into thin air?”_ he says skeptically. You bite the inside of your cheek as apposed to saying something else to twist his panties further in a bunch.

 

“ _You'll have to give me a moment Miss Shaw. I'm still in the middle of rather extensive repairs.”_ And you hear it again, that sigh of disappointment puffing from his thinly pursed lips. He disconnects the call abruptly, and you don't know why it makes you angry. That he's passively aggressively reminding you of the computer debacle, or because having the last word and hanging up is your go to move.

 

By the time you stomp back over to Fusco, the soccer mom he struck out with is long gone. You grumble to yourself and lean against the wall next to him, cross your arms tightly over your chest and wait for Finch to call back with more information.

 

“Excuse me sir.” You look up and see a young man approaching Fusco with a clipboard. His eyes are glossed, his hair is dreaded, and he's wearing one of those old army jackets from a surplus store with various activist patches sewn into the puke green fabric. _Wonder what he wants._

 

“Would you like to sign our petition to legalize mar-”

 

“Does it look like I wanna sign that friggin thing?” Fusco barks at him, flashing the badge on his belt. He hikes his pointed thumb to the left and tells the guy to, “Get lost Puffalo Soldier,” and you can't help but smirk a little at Fusco's ever infinite imagination when it comes to nicknames.

 

Clipboard guy tries to ask you the same, and you just nod over to your equally fed up partner. “What he said.” And as he walks away bothered, you both scoff and mutter, “ _Hippie_ ,” under your breaths. At least you two have one thing in common.

 

Harold chimes in again. _“Miss Shaw, I've been doing some research in the meantime. As it turns out, it's not a parade at all,”_ he says, right about the same time a giant paper mache float happens to pass by.

 

You blink a few times. “Um... You sure about that?”

 

“ _Quite. It's a march for the People's Climate. Hundreds of thousands have gathered to combat and bring awareness to global climate change.”_

 

“Great,” you sigh with disinterest. That's some riveting research Finch, but what you were really hoping for was some information pertaining to Stan-Dan and his trusty rifle's whereabouts. Is it just you, or does that seem more important?

 

“ _The ringleader of the organization, Henry Nolan, is scheduled to make a speech this afternoon at Hemming plaza. I believe he might be our number's target. Mr. Nolan has been receiving quite a lot of anonymous death threats in the recent months leading up to this march.”_

 

“Maybe it's a hired hit,” you suppose and shrug. “Big Bad Inc. isn't too happy about the go-green thumb trying to put them out of business.”

 

“ _A likely assumption...”_

 

“Doesn't make sense though. I mean, why kill Nolan? They'd just be upping the cause's profile by making him a martyr. Unless it's about something personal...”

 

Whatever. You could speculate all day long, but when it comes down to it, it's not your job to guess why Stan-Dan's gonna off Nolan. It's your job to prevent it from happening. Speaking of, “You track his cell yet?”

 

“ _Patience is a virtue Miss Shaw.”_ Finch lectures.

 

“Running a little low on virtue at the moment,” you sigh, “Cramped by all these angry hipsters.”

 

“ _I find their movement very inspiring Miss Shaw. What these people are trying to accomplish now will be conducive for our future and the preservation of our planet. I've actually donated a small sum to their organization.”_

 

“You throw money at tree-huggers, but I don't get a raise?” you scoff. “What about my well being Harold?”

 

“ _There would be no job for you if not for the world, Miss Shaw. Do try and take that into consideration.”_

 

“Considering...” Your eyes wander to the many protesters filed in the streets. You see one of them carelessly throw his empty coffee cup on the ground, another lighting a cigarette, another who uses so much hairspray, her hair could stop a bullet. So these are the people trying to save the planet? So _inspiring._

 

“I think maybe we all do deserve to drown when the polar ice caps melt,” you say dryly.

 

“ _Well, you're certainly entitled to your opinion.”_ Finch replies after some many awkward seconds of silence. _“Ah, I finally have a trace on his cell phone. Sending you the address now.”_

 

The phone in your pocket buzzes and the screen lights up with a location just a few blocks from here. You nudge Fusco. “Wanna make yourself useful again?”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, straightening up in preparation, sighing as he takes out his badge and approaches the wall of people and breaks right through. “Alright Veg-heads! NYPD, comin through! Move it! Some of us have jobs to do!”

 

Fusco clears the way as you follow behind him in the jam packed crowd, throwing a few elbows here and there to keep from getting squished. Maybe it's a good thing Reese sat this one out. The man _is_ claustrophobic.

 

You and Fusco reach the address Finch had listed, a four story apartment building just near the plaza where Nolan is set to make his big speech. In the alley between the buildings is a fire escape, to which you immediately start climbing with Fusco trailing just behind.

 

“This counts as exercise right?” he huffs, right as you reach the third level. You turn around and give him a puzzled look. “My doctor keeps naggin me,” he adds. “Says I need to do more cardio. I think I just need to lay off the danishes.”

 

“Yeah,” you say, rolling your eyes forward again and continuing upward. “What do doctor's know anyway?”

 

When you reach the rooftop, automatically, you feel like something's amiss. The number, he's no where in sight.

 

“What the hell!” You kick the gravel and snow at your feet, having already checked every corner and so far finding nothing. Finch said he was here. Finch is never wrong... usually never wrong at least.

 

Finally, Fusco meets you at the top. Exhausted, breathing heavily in way that's concerning, but still ready for any kind of heart-attack inducing action as he immediately goes into a combat stance.

 

“Relax Rambo, he's not here,” you tell him. He uncoils, letting out a sigh of relief and taking a lean against the railing. “Geez, Lionel. You look like you're about to keel over.”

 

Fusco glowers and shoots back, “We all can't be ninjas like you,” and mutters, “Ran up four flights of stairs for nothin.”

 

You shrug. “Well at least you got some cardio in today. Your doctor's going to be so proud,” you tell him with a brusque edge to your tone as you circle back around. “And look.” You point across the way and feign optimism, “There's a breathtaking view.”

 

“Yeah,” he scoffs. “Millions of hippies, as far as the eye can see. What a sight,” he thrills. “You can't even see the park.”

 

“Wait a second...” Your eyes narrow as they scan the distance. He's right, you can barely see the park, let alone the plaza from this angle. What you think might be the stage they set up in the center for Nolan's speech is hardly visible, the line of sight blocked by the building across the street. The best sniper in the world couldn't make that shot, because, there is simply no shot to make.

 

This bad feeling starts to tug at you, so you dial Finch again, pace back and forth impatiently until he picks up.

 

“ _Hello Miss Sh-”_

 

“ _Shhhhh,_ Finch. That address you sent me...” you check the message on your phone again and read it back. “325 Waverly-”

 

“ _No, it's 329,”_ he interjects. _“329 Waverly Place. Why? Is something wrong?”_

 

The actual address he's talking about, _the correct one_ , it's two buildings down. It's got the right angle for a clean shot to the stage and hell, it's even got a Stan-Dan with a bolt action perched on top of the roof.

 

“ _Well_ , fuck me,” you gravely whisper. “You picked on hell of time to make your first typo Finch!” When Fusco sees where your realization stricken eyes have gone, he curses too and bolts for the fire escape.

 

“Shaw! What the hell are you doing?” he shouts at you still standing transfixed on the roof. “C'mon, let's go!”

 

“We won't make it that way,” you say, shaking your head at him and at what you're thinking of doing as you gauge the size of the gap between the buildings. A little wider than you're comfortable with, but there's no time.

 

He sees you walking backwards from the ledge and counting your steps, “Don't even think about it!” he threatens from afar.

 

Bouncing already from the beginnings of adrenaline working you up, you rip off your beanie and let out a lengthy exhale. “To late Lionel,” you tell him in all seriousness. “I already thought about it.”

 

And then you take off, sprinting towards the edge as fast as your legs can go. At the last step, you plant one boot squarely onto the parapet and kick off with all your might. As you fly through the air, you should be thinking, _oh shit oh shit oh shit,_ but in all actuality, you're thinking maybe Root was right about you being a cat in a past life.

 

Well, not quite. You don't exactly land on your feet. Too caught up in the relief that you made it across, you forget to properly roll into the landing. Instead, the force of the leap makes you tumble violently until there's no momentum left.

 

“Ow,” you cough, face down in the snow that's collected on the roof. There's a bit less spring in your step as you get up and limp to the ladder going up to the next building. You vault over the side and crouch behind a large air duct for cover. Peering around the corner, you see the number kneeling and aiming down the sights of the rifle perched on the ledge.

 

“ _Gotcha_.”

 

But there's one teeny tiny problem though. Your gun. Where _the fuck_ is your gun?

 

_Shit!_ It must have fallen out during the crash landing. You could go back and get it... but then you see the number pulling back the bolt, loading a round in the chamber, and you realize there's no fucking time at all.

 

You don't why, but it seemed like a good idea at first, yelling “Hey!” in the last moment before he squeezes the trigger. It does the trick of drawing his attention away from the person he's about to kill. Stan-Dan abruptly turns to you, and unfortunately, he takes the wrong end of the barrel with him. You duck for cover again as he gets off a wild shot in your direction.

 

“Short, dark and frowning!” he calls out, “Is that you?” so cheerfully for a man who's just tried to shoot you.

 

“Tis I,” you respond in the opposite of enthusiasm, frowning and slouched behind an air vent.

 

He laughs heartily. “Something wrong with your invitations? Is that why you followed me?”

 

You stare up at the overcast sky. “Oh, you know,” you reply, unhelpfully with sarcasm, “That friend called me earlier too. Said a guy average pale and boring would be up here making poor life choices.”

 

His voice takes a more serious tone. “You shouldn't have come here.”

 

“Listen Dan-”  
  


“It's Stan!” he yells furiously from out of nowhere. “My name is Stan!”

 

_Shit._ “That's what I meant, _Stan_!” _Jesus, calm the fuck down._ “Look, this is only gonna end one way. Badly,” you tell him. “Why don't you put the gun down so we can, um... you know... talk about it?”

 

“And if I refuse?”

 

“Well, then...” you shrug inwardly, having not much of anything to threaten him with. So you lie. “I'll shoot you.”

 

“If you were going to shoot me, you'd have done it already.”

 

True. He'd be on the ground crying right about now. Instead, he's standing on unharmed knee caps, laughing and mocking while you hide behind some flimsy aluminum air vent on a freezing rooftop.

 

“Plus,” he chuckles, “I don't think you even have a gun.”

 

“Do too.”

 

It exists. Somewhere. Not in this immediate vicinity, but in this general area, there is a gun and it belongs to you.

 

“Prove it,” he says, calling your bluff. You sit there silently for a moment, checking the time on your wrist watch, wondering if Fusco's ever going to get his ass up here and give you hand.

 

“No,” you argue further, pointlessly except for the fact it might add a second or three to your life span. Time vastly runs out when he groans in frustration, the last bit of whatever patience he had already dwindled.

 

“Enough!” he shouts. “Come out! Hands where I can see them!”

 

“You sure?” you ask, dubiously. No longer biding time for Fusco, who seems like he's never going to make it to the party, but for yourself. While you gather a decent sized snowball in your hands, packing it tightly with bits of rock and gravel, forming it into a neatly perfect shape that will soon wipe the smug look you know is on his stupid face.

 

“Right now!”

 

“Alright, alright! Don't get pushy,” you grumble, rising to your feet with hands raised, sidestepping from behind the air vent and facing him.

 

He nearly doubles over with laughter when he sees the lump of snow in your hand.

 

“Any chance you'd be willing to settle this with a good ol' fashioned snowball fight?” you joke, shrugging.

 

“Really? That's all you got?” He lowers the rifle in the slightest, thinking you're harmless. “For some reason, I expected a little more from you.”

 

“That's sort of the running theme for me today... disappointing people,” you tell him, unabashed. Still stalling for some miracle moment that's going to get you out of this mess.

 

This high up, the wind is colder, wilder as it whips your face and blows loudly in your ears. You think you hear something else though, some clatter from the other side of the roof close to the fire escape. Then you smirk, as it becomes more apparent, as you figure out what's making that noise, or who, rather.

 

“Sorry Stan,” you coolly say, “I have to put you down now.”

 

He puffs out a breath of laughter, scoffs. “You mean, 'Let me down',” he jokes.

 

You shake your head slowly. “No,” you reply, just as you hear Fusco coming up the last flight of steps. His stomping now too loud for anyone in a mile radius not to hear, and you counted on it. Counted on it dragging Stan's attention away from you long enough so you could wind back in a pitcher's stance and chuck that heavy snowball right at him.

 

It flies through the air at high speed and hits him square in the face, temporarily blinding him. He automatically lets go of the rifle, his hands leaving to wipe his eyes free of ice instead. By the time he does blink, he's blindsided again.

 

Tackled by Fusco, who had made a running start from the fire escape as soon as you threw the snowball. It's really quite amazing, how Fusco just takes him out like that, knocks him to the ground with the full force of a pro NFL linebacker. Speechless as you watch him in action, and honestly, kind of impressed by how quickly he finagles the perp's hands behind his back and expertly slaps on the cuffs.

 

You walk towards him. “Damn Lionel, you've been holding out on me.” He doesn't hear you though. Caught up in what he's doing, still trying to restrain Stan, the only person not quite ready to call it a day yet.

 

Even with his hands bound, he doesn't stop resisting. He continues to thrash wildly and kick Fusco.

 

“Hey!” you call out to Fusco. “Just let him, he'll wear himself out soon enough,” you advise. “And don't get so close to his-”

 

_Legs..._

 

“Well, I tried.” You roll your eyes and tread over. Now, you have to go pry Fusco's head from a leg lock before he passes out. He should know better by now. Just because someone's cuffed, it doesn't make them any less dangerous.

 

You stand behind Fusco, doubled over and red in the face, and begin to untangle Stan's legs from around his neck. Stan's locked on real good though. “The hell?” you grit through your teeth, straining as you pull. “Is everyday – leg day?” _Fuck._ You have to twist a pressure point on his ankle just to get an inch of slack, before you can really start prying. “ _Almost_ – just a – _little_ more...”

 

“Got it!” It happens so fast. One moment, Fusco's free. The next, he's freely slamming into you. Kangaroo kicked by Stan-fucking-Dan Griggs.

 

The force of it sends you flying backwards, stumbling and stumbling until the back of your knees hit a hard edge. You hate that you know pretty darn well what you're flipping over. The building's parapet, the last stop between you and four stories worth of drop space you'll go down until something hard, like concrete, breaks your fall.

 

Your fingers desperately seek purchase in the last moment, luckily catching the parapet as you tumbled over it. One hand clings for dear life onto the ledge you're just barely hanging from. Now if you could just reach up with your other, grab a hold of something, you could pull yourself up. Or if Fusco could maybe fucking do something for fucks sake so you don't fall to your death or anything. That would be nice.

 

You try again and again to get that second hold, but every time you reach up, the hand you already have planted slips a little more and more, losing feeling the tighter you try and hold on.

 

The moment your fingers finally give away, you were looking up at the grey sky just behind the view of the ledge, and right as you began to fall, you saw a face.

 

No, you didn't see God, or Root, or anything so cliché like that. Although you would have preferred either as apposed to Fusco's scared shitless mug staring back as he tried and _failed_ to catch you in the last second.

 

As you felt his clumsy fingers brush against the wool of your sleeve and regretfully close into an empty fist, you figured some last words would be in order. Something he can actually grasp and hold onto for the rest of his life, every time he thinks back to you going splat on the pavement.

 

 

“ _You suck.”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading. Only two more chapters to go!  
> or three...
> 
> We'll see.


	6. Close encounters of the annoying kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw finds out she is being watched a little too closely by a secret system, a machine that spies on her every hour of every day... unfortunately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, we have...  
> reference to night terrors? maybe, i don't think it's anything majorly triggering but just as precaution, I'm warning you. 
> 
> LOTS OF CHEEKY SHOOT BANTER and some fluff, slight reference to sex.
> 
> And as always, strong language. 
> 
> enjoy

As your eyes snap open, you instinctively gasp for air, which, as you soon find out, seems nearly impossible to draw. There's an invisible weight on your chest, crushing your lungs that feel as if they've gotten the wind bludgeoned out of them repeatedly. You've woken suddenly and you're struggling to breathe but then again, you're used to things like this happening every so often. From bad dreams or bad thoughts, sometimes they're strong enough to rattle you in the middle of the night. It's not rare that you're jolted awake, drenched in a cold sweat and on the verge of a panic attack.

 

It's something you've learned to deal with, so you made a routine of it. Whenever this happens, there are objects that you immediately begin to search for. Small reminders that you're not actually dying or being tortured or being eaten alive by a horde of zombies that all look like Martine. Or this most recently obscure dream... something about Root in a white dress, standing under an alter fashioned from interwoven dildos... atop a giant mountain of pancakes??

 

The first thing you usually see is the ceiling fan above your bed, spinning in the summer months or sitting idle during the colder seasons like now. You opened your eyes and expected it to be there, so you could count each of the five fins and start this process of unraveling all this wound tension.

 

But it's dark and you can't see anything at all. Odd. There's always some kind of light. From the curtains dampening the beams of the street lamps just outside your bedroom window, or the faint red glow of the digital clock sitting on the nightstand. You blink a few times and still, nothing.

 

Regardless, now comes the part where you shoot straight up out of bed. Expecting the free space to do so, you bolt upright and immediately whack your head on something hard. The sound of your forehead colliding and the responding, _“Fuck!”_ creates a hollowing echo. You're not sure if it's your brain still bouncing around inside of it's skull or if it's this place you're steadily theorizing may not be your bedroom.

 

One: Your bed isn't this jagged and lumpy. Two: It doesn't smell like – “Whatthe _fff-ugghhhh! WHY?_ ” you cringe at the scent of sour death invading your nose and making your stomach queasily churn.

 

Just then, you feel something brushing along down your arm. For a moment, you think it's Root consoling you and a small part of you hangs onto the belief that maybe you're still stuck in whatever nightmare this is.

 

You remember her saying how much you flinch and mutter in your sleep during a bad dream. All the jostling about and moaning, she said she wakes up well before you do sometimes. And it makes sense, as you feel this dull brushing against your arm, you think she's trying to lull you back to the real world. Any minute now, you'll start to feel more of her. You'll feel her hands gently rubbing your shoulders, her fingertips running up and down your spine in soothing motions.

 

A wave of relief begins to wash over you when Root slips her hand inside of your own. Her touch is soft and... _furry? Huh? What the..._ you give it a quick squeeze and then every last dangling participle of easiness goes out the window when “Root's hand” makes a shrill squeak and skitters away.

 

“RAT!”

 

The bursting realization comes quick, quick like this sudden urgency for flight. You're up in a heartbeat, scrambling out of the dumpster as fast as humanly possible. Caring little for anything other than breaking free, you exit the giant garbage box with the finesse of a gin drunk gymnast and fall face first onto the pavement.

 

If you didn't feel it before, you most certainly feel it now. The pain throbbing all over your body, like you've just been hit by a mack truck going 60 in a 30. You roll over onto your back and just – lie there for a moment, taking deep breaths while waiting for the pain to subside, letting your eyes adjust to the new light of day.

 

“ _Shaw!”_

 

If were up to you, if you could choose the first face you wanted to see after waking up in a trash coffin, it would definitely not be Fusco's. From the alley where you lay, his stupid head is seen hanging over the ledge three stories high above. Your eyes scale the distance from the roof he pushed you off of, all the way to the dumpster where you landed. It's a trip you never, ever, want to take again.

 

“Yo! You okay?” he shouts.

 

“Peachy,” you mumble, using more energy to contort your face into a frown, so striking it could be seen from space, and you beam it up directly to the fat head on the roof.

 

“Hold on, I'll be right down!” he says, his head quickly ducking out of sight.

 

You groan, shaking your head, “No,” thinking if Fusco values his life, he should stay far, far away from you right now.

 

You try to stand and... _Nope!_ That's not happening right now. So you roll over and sort of crawl pathetically to the adjacent wall and prop yourself against it.

 

It's already been decided that today is going down on the list as one of the most terrible, horrible, no good, very bad days of your life. It's only appropriate, you think, to name it after that book you read as a child. Because today, you are that kid Alexander and nothing is going right and everything is pissing you off. You wonder if the rest of the week is going to be like this, working with Fusco. _Oh god, it might be._

 

Will it get worse? Will it get better? You can't remember how that story ended, but then again, you might not have ever finished it. You vaguely recall your mother getting annoyed with you, perhaps it was because you kept giggling every time something bad happened to Alexander. Three quarters of the way through, she would always close the book and quietly frown before telling you to just go to bed already.

 

But your life isn't a fucking child's tale; your problems are a lot uglier. Right now, the biggest problem you face, is whether you're going kick Fusco's ass when he gets down here, or kill him. The urge to do either or both is quite strong. You can tell because it's the middle of winter and your body feels hot with rage, because you're not even considering the backlash and consequences. All you see is red and the visions of pain you desperately want to inflict. You're balling your fists and imagining them knocking out teeth... and then you see it.

 

The little black dot on the back of your hand, the mark Root had given you with the nail polish brush this morning. So you would see it and think of her, instead of murder perhaps. You wonder if she did it with that idea in mind all along.

 

So you facetime her. No... you just call her, because you probably look like shit.

 

A connecting click later and her sweet voice begins to flood through your earpiece.

 

 

“ _Two calls in one day? You must be missing me something fierce.”_

 

“Remember when I asked you not to use my guns?”

 

Root hums doubtfully. _“Um, I remember you threatening me with bodily harm if I so much as thought about touching them...”_

 

“Well, I give you permission now,” you tell her. “Take them. _All_ of them. And hide them from me.”

 

“ _Dare I ask, why?”_

 

At first, you wonder how she doesn't know everything already. But if the Machine hasn't told her yet, she will eventually, so you think there's no point in hiding or lying.

 

The reason is, “Because Lionel won't be safe if I have access to any kind of firepower,” you say, thinking about it more and adding, “You should hide the grenades too.”

 

“ _Sweetie...”_ Root says in that chiding tone, and you can practically feel the deadpan from three states away. She asks, _“Don't you think you're overreacting a little?”_

 

For a moment, you oblige Root and reconsider. Would it be overreacting if _say..._ you kidnapped Fusco, drove him deep into the woods, kicked him out and told him he has thirty seconds to start running before you start shooting? Would that be too much?

 

“No.” If anything, that would be under-reacting. If anything, giving Fusco a head start would be you taking it easy on him.

 

Distinctly, you hear Root sigh through the ear bud. _“Sameen,”_ she punctuates after the long, winded sound of dissatisfaction blows from her lips and you hate how it sounds in this context. Purely reprimanding. She only says your name like that for one reason; because you are being an insolent little shit. Usually though, it's said with a playfulness hidden behind feigned irritability. But to Root's credit, you usually keep your insolent little shit ways confined to extracurricular activity time.

 

“Seriously Root,” you argue, feeling more compelled to state your case. “The universe created him for one and only one reason: to irritate me to death. Like some cosmic force or whatever is using him to fuck with me. And I think it's telling him to actually kill me today.” Or just drive you to the breaking point of no return; to the edge of sanity where you're forced to make a drastic decision in order to escape. Someone's going off the cliff and it sure as hell isn't going to be you.

 

Root doesn't say anything to that effect. Funny, for a woman who liberally puts her two cents in without solicitation, she sure is quiet. The line is silent and absent of her know-it-all voice that could be poking holes in your already absurd theory.

 

Did the call drop? Did she hang up on you? No, you think. You can still hear the static and background noise... which means...

 

“You're not even listening to me,” you harshly accuse of Root.

 

“ _What? – Yes, of course I am!”_ she quickly protests. _“Sorry sweetie, you're not the only goddess whispering in my ear at the moment.”_

 

If only Root could see her “goddess” now, you think, as you use the phone screen's reflection to pick pieces of fuck knows what from your messy hair. When you take notice of the tiny camera lens on the front, you instantly bring the phone down to slap against your leg, remembering then the _other she_ you're in constant rivalry with for Root's attention.

 

“She can't shut up for like – two fucking minutes while I talk to my-”

 

“ _Future wife?”_ Root provokingly cuts in, and your brows knit into a tighter frown. 

 

“Severely delusional woman squatting in my apartment,” you correct her, growing tiresome of Root and the dumb things she considers to be funny.

 

“ _Actually-”_ Root pauses like she's listening to the Machine again. Surprise surprise. _“What She's saying pertains to you Shaw.”_

 

Great. The tattling has already begun. You might have to call Root back. This could take a while, all the juicy gossip she's about to hear.

 

Whatever. “She better not be talking shit about me,” you warn. “I don't know if you heard about Harold's computer yet, but I can make Bear do the exact same thing to her.”

 

Root chuckles at the joke that's not really a joke, and tells you, _“She just laughed.”_

 

So that's how it's going to be huh? Not only are you having a bad day, those two chuckle heads are adding insult to injury and mocking you. If they haven't started a club yet, you think they should. A club where the only order of business is to make fun of you.

 

“I didn't know robots could do that,” you say dryly, jabbing Root with the one name for the machine she strongly dislikes above all the rest and really wishes you would _stop using that word Sameen, it's very condescending._

 

“ _She says She finds your crass wit to be very humorous...”_ Root replies, adding bitterly, _“Well, that makes one of us.”_

 

“Good to know,” you curtly remark.

 

“ _She also wants me to tell you, as far as Lionel's concerned, you couldn't be any more wrong.”_

 

 _Is that so?_ “Well, you can tell _her –_ _I_ said – that she can go-”

 

But Root cuts you off mid insult. Albeit, it wouldn't have been the most clever retort pulled from the bottom of your fuck you bag, but it would have sufficed.

 

“ _That's not a very nice thing to say to The Machine, Shaw,”_ Root chastises, _“Seeing as She's just saved your life and all.”_

 

“I didn't even-” you start to protest but... _Wait a second..._ “ _Saved my life?_ ” you parrot in confusion. “What the hell are you talking about?”

 

“ _What if I told you, your entire day was orchestrated so that you'd fall from exactly the right place at precisely the right time?”_

 

You wonder about the fall and how it might have knocked something loose in your head. At first, you think it's just Root being Root, further adding cryptics to the mystery that is today when all you want to do is pull the mask off, see who the villain is, kick their ass and go the fuck home. But as your brain catches up to real time, you start reconsidering and dangerously speculating. And she better not mean what you think she means.

 

“I'd say, two more names are getting added to my hobby list if you don't start explaining. Right. Now.”

 

“ _One of the functions of Her system is to run simu-”_ You growl and she stops herself before uttering the forbidden word. _“Variations – of every possible outcome based on all the information She gathers.”_

 

“Duh, Root. Tell me something I don't know,” you interject with sarcasm rolling off the tip of your tongue as Root clicks hers in annoyance.

 

“ _Unfortunately_ Sameen...”

 

There it is again, your name in the form of scolding.  _Yep. Mmhmm._ You're definitely going to pay later. 

 

“ _After crunching the numbers, there was no scenario in which you saved Nolan, caught the number, and lived,”_ she tells you, adding a shrugging, insincere sounding _“Sorry”_ at the end.

 

“Could have just given me the day off or something. I'm no super computer menace, but the chances of someone dying on the couch watching TV... pretty slim, Root.”

 

Sure, there's always the odd chance of choking on a pork rind. That'd be an even dumber way to go out than having some idiot knock you off a roof. Though, the simplest difference between the two, you could have actually done something to stop one of those deadly scenarios. Ask the Machine which is more probable: you successfully preforming a self tracheotomy, or you defying the laws of gravity.

 

“ _What can I say? She works in mysterious ways.”_

 

You kind of snort at that.  _Yeah right._ Mysterious as in completely unnecessary skirting the fine line of over the top. 

 

“ _Think about it Shaw, all those pesky circumstance earlier... it was Her stalling you for the right time.”_

 

You rewind and wonder back on everything that got on your nerves today.

 

“The traffic jam?” you ask and wait a few seconds for Root to cough up whatever the machine's telling her.

 

“ _Unexpected power grid failure, shutting down all the traffic lights in the area.”_

 

“The sidewalk punk?”

 

“ _He was sitting inside the starbucks when the wifi suddenly stopped working. He left in a huff, right about the same time you and Lionel went off roading.”_

 

“Alright,” you say, still somewhat skeptical. “But what about this morning huh? After breakfast?” you question, not because you consider weirdly awesome sex with Root to be one of those pesky circumstances, you just wanna know whether or not the machine put her up to it. “Were you a part of this elaborate scheme? _Oh my god..._ Did she tell you to get creative with the syrup and the spatula and my-”

 

“ _This is news to me as well. And, by the way Shaw...”_ she says, pulling out this promiscuous, tenderizing voice, _“It was entirely my idea to flip you like a little hot cake over the dining room table. Glad you liked it.”_

 

Somewhere, in Maryland or in the surrounding tri-state area, a perky psycho just tried to wink.

 

“I never said I liked it,” you grumble bitterly, lying your sore ass off of course.

 

Root gingerly hums.  _“And all this time, I thought “oh fuck, god YES, and don't-stop-dont-stop!” was a good thing. Really Shaw, if you don't like what the chef's prepared, don't ask for so many helpings.”_

 

“Okay, but lemme ask you this. Was Bear ripping Harold's computer to shreds _also_ part of the plan?”

 

“ _Yes,”_ Root answers almost immediately. You start to celebrate, thinking that for once, you've finally caught Root in a lie. 

 

“Ha! Never would have happened if I hadn't of been late,” you gloat. “And why was I late _Root_?”

 

“ _You being a glutton for multiple orgasms had nothing to do with that. Late or not, Shaw, Harry's desktop was never meant to compute another day,”_ she says, and before you can ask how in the world, Root explains. _“She blasted a certain frequency through Harold's monitors that only dogs can hear. Kinda like nails on a chalkboard times ten... so go figure.”_

 

If that is true, then why did you have to get blamed for it? There are so many questions on your mind, like why you were the one who had to take the brunt end of everything. You could ask, but then again, Root would just tell you to stop questioning the machine.

 

Root goes on.  _“As much as I'd like to account our maple flavored fun into the grand scheme of things, sadly, I can't refer to it as life saving.”_ Then she cheekily adds,  _“Perhaps you might consider it life affirming though?”_

 

You groan as you rub your temples. “My head hurts.” From the fall, from Root and all of this new information you're trying to sort through. On the plus side, it's busying your mind more than the misdirected anger is.

 

“ _Aw, sweetie,”_ Root amorously coos. _“I know it's a lot to take in at once, but now do you understand? Everything down to the bus boy who didn't lock up the dumpster, it was all manipulated by the-”_

 

“Almighty pain-in-my-ass... Yeah, I get it.” Once everything absorbs, you truly believe you do. And you chuckle madly in relief upon another realization.

 

“I figured she was the one behind those dumb wedding invitations anyway,” you laugh, and so does Root. She probably finds it funny too, the very thought of you standing at an alter as Root strolls down the aisle in a puffy white dress. Earlier, it gave you this dooming kind of feeling. Now, it tickles you, hysterically.

 

“Hahaha! You and me – _married_!” There are tears in your eyes, you're laughing so hard. “I mean, come on?”

 

Your cackling does eventually taper off, into a few giggling after shocks and a final _whew_ , as you catch your breath again. “Man, she's got some sense of humor, doesn't she Root?”

 

Oddly, the line goes quiet. Seconds go by, long, nerve racking seconds of silence that start to chip away at this new found sense of ease and surety.

 

“That was her, right?” you ask with slight trepidation. And all of sudden, you begin to wonder, if Root's laughter earlier sounded more nervous than comical, but you can't remember. “You don't like – actually want us to get – married or anything... right? Root?”

 

“ _Um...”_

 

Your eyes narrow, and you practically growl, “ _Root,”_ because if she doesn't start explaining herself, and quick, you're going to lose it again.

 

“ _Oh darn,”_ she sighs, _“Wouldya look at the time. She says I need to get going if I wanna catch my flight.”_ And oh, how utterly convenient that is for Root. How marvelous the machine's timing. Such...

 

“Bullshit!” You call her out, and it's like Root pretends she doesn't hear that either. 

 

“ _I'll see you at home.”_

 

“No you will not!” There isn't going to be a home for her to go to, her key isn't going to work in the new lock you're going to install. So help her, you'll do it, if she so much as thinks about hanging up on you right now.

 

“ _Bye sweetie!”_

 

“Root, don't you dare-”

 

You think you hear the smooching of kisses before the disconnecting _click_ of the line going dead. Oh, and that does it.

 

Root is one of the reasons you have back up phones. Another cell bites the dust as you impulsively chuck it against the side of the dumpster, where it breaks into many pieces.

 

“Unbelievable!” you shout, to no one but the sky.

 

“What is?”

 

You quickly turn and see Fusco coming down the alley, herding a pouting perpetrator Stan who's resigned his legs for more productive things, using them for walking instead of just flailing them about.

 

Slumping back against the wall, you mutter, “Nothing,” and shake your head. Nothing you feel like telling him anyway, like he would even believe you.

 

“You alright?” Fusco asks, giving Stan a few good shoves closer to where you are. “Can you walk?”

 

You sort of shrug. “We'll find out won't we,” you reply, planting both palms on the ground. But your body seems to be in slight disagreement, you soon find out, only rising an inch or so before a sudden pain shoots down your spine and your lame body decides to quit.

 

“Here.” Fusco extends an open hand to help you up, but you only eyeball it hesitantly in suspicion. “I don't have cooties Shaw,” he says some odd seconds later, after you still refuse to accept it.

 

“It's those butterfingers I'm worried about,” you tell him. Fusco rolls his eyes at that and deadpans hard until you begrudgingly take his hand.

 

“Let's go grumpty-dumpty.” With one arm, he pulls you up effortlessly, like you were a rag doll. Luckily, he doesn't drop you this time.

 

Man, you're really going to feel this in the morning, you think, if this current sting of pain shooting down your spine is any indication.

 

“I'm so ready for this day to be over,” you say, craning your aching neck from side to side. “So didn't turn out the way I thought it would.”

 

“You can say that again,” Stan mumbles under his breath. “I was really hoping you'd crack like an egg when you hit the ground.”

 

“Oh boy,” Fusco whispers, as the tension in the air suddenly thickens.

 

You stop stretching and everything else that you were currently doing or thinking of doing, and focus all of your energy into a seething glare directed at Stan with the intention of burning a hole right through his fucking face.

 

“What did you just say?” you ask through a jaw clenched so tight, teeth could shatter, balling your right hand into a fist at your side.

 

In Stan's defense, he doesn't know you. He doesn't know the terrible day you're having, nor does he realize how much you'd like to kill something right now. The last bit of restraint left in you gives him a chance to maybe rethink the violent tornado he's about to run head first into, however...

 

“It's a shame that you survived, really,” Stan candidly speaks, with an ear to ear smile that rages you even further. “I guess the person stupid enough to wanna marry you will actually have to go through with it now.”

 

“You're on your own, pal.” Fusco lets go of Stan's cuffs and backs away, lifting his shoulders in a half shrug and throwing his hands up. As if to say, _I don't know him._

 

You take a step closer to Stan, the dumb loud mouthed grinning fuck, and give him a little smirk of your own as you crack your knuckles menacingly.

 

“Shame,” you sneer, “You'll be going to prison without any teeth.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i wrote a song called "Sorry I suck at timely updates" for an album entitled "I'm doing the best i can"  
> expected release date: TBD.
> 
> Only one more chapter which i will TRY MY DARNEST to publish soon.


	7. Burst Your Stress Bubble: A step by step guide to relief by S. Shaw

During the ride home, _Stan my name is Stan_ cried and bled all over the backseat while Fusco complained about the huge mess he would have to clean up later. If he meant the interior of his cruiser caked in garbage goo and blood, or the big fat lie to Captain _So'n'So_ explaining the toothless state of the suspect in custody. Somewhere in the preachy tangent, he said, _“Shaw, you really gotta find a healthier way to de-stress._ ”

 

And where did he learn that choice piece of self help lingo? Maybe his barber moonlights as a life coach. Who the hell knows?

 

One thing's for sure. There is nothing, NOTHING, wrong with the way you de-stress, or whatever the fuck it's called. Sure, it's a bit unorthodox, a tad violent, and sometimes X-rated. Whether it's with boxing gloves or guns ( _or other 'fun devices' for fun bedroom activities, all of which may or may not be stored in a sizeably large box underneath the bed.)_ Basically, beating and shooting holes in things, among _other things_ , when you need to unwind usually does the trick. 

 

 _Yeah, sure._ So the thing you unwound on today happened to be a real person. _Big deal._

 

_Okay, fine._ You didn't just unwind, you beat a guy to a bloody pulp while handcuffed and he swallowed a few teeth. 

 

You never said you were perfect.

 

While crossing over the bridge, Fusco offered you another helpful suggestion. That you do what his ex-wife did – and no, it had nothing to do with divorcing him from your life.

 

He said whenever she had rough days, she'd um... _uh_...

 

You don't really remember, but these were the bullet points: bubble bath, wine, opera music. That much you unfortunately retained from the fifteen some minute pep talk. If only you had banged your head a little harder on the window while he rambled. A good concussion would have erased it completely.

 

As Fusco pulled up to your apartment, he said, “Same time tomorrow, Grumpy,” and you practically hurled yourself from the vehicle.

 

_No fucking way._ You'd rather be shot in the foot. At least then you'd have a good excuse to call out.

 

The moment you walked through the door had to be one of the more joyous moments of the day. It was like returning to shore after so many years lost at sea; you were the thankful sailor - kissing the sand.

 

No, you didn't make out with the floor. That's a little dramatic, not to mention, gross. Although, you did hug the dry bar and give a rather warm display of affection to a liquor bottle. With all the taxing events of today, both mental and physical, pouring a few fingers worth of the special occasion whiskey was deemed highly appropriate and completely necessary.

 

After your disgusting clothes were peeled off, they were put in a garbage bag and thrown by the door. You sipped and contemplated a good barrel fire on the fire escape versus a dry cleaning to get the horrible smell out.

 

Other than that, the plan for the rest of the evening was a simple one. A thoroughly detailed shower, followed by another shower, mass amounts of Chinese food, and finally, slipping into a kung-pao coma in front of the television. 

 

The bed would be a lot more comfortable, however, you really just want to be close to the door when Root comes back.

 

Oh, you'd love to see her just _try_ and sashay her perky ass inside. It might be a bit difficult for her though, seeing as you've latched the door with something else special. The heaviest chain made from the unholiest of reinforced alloys, just for her. Unless Root can Macgyver a thermic lance from miscellaneous items in her pocket, she's not breaking in this time.

 

That was the plan, but in the spirit of today still lingering on _,_ the plans changed. When you did a celebratory shot for every cat life remaining (on an empty stomach) you found yourself thinking a little too much about Fusco's ex-wife.

 

_God no!_ Not like that! 

 

His voice somehow slipped through the drunken cracks and nagged you like an annoying conscience. The words you thought to have beat out of your head came back with the vengeance of a broken jazz record.

 

Slowly but surely, you began poking holes in your own theory, wondering if there was actually a better way to let out steam and if Fusco's ex-wife's version of that would do it for you.

 

It's not like you've _ever_ taken a bath before to relax, you're not a total hard case. It's just that you've never gone out of your way to make an event of something so routine.

 

On drink five, it's still being mulled over. More and more, you're growing partial to the idea of taking extra steps to center yourself. 

 

On drink six, however, you do a complete turnabout. Anger suddenly dawns on you along with this whiskey induced epiphany... Everything Fusco said was a lie! He's wrong and god damnit, you're going to prove it!

 

“That's it!” You're going to take a fucking bubble bath... _for science._

 

So, you definitely had the alcohol part down pat. The next thing you needed to disprove Fusco's hypothesis was music. But there was nothing even remotely opera-ish in Root's record collection at all. In fact, everything was garbage. If having to settle on the _The Breakfast Club_ soundtrack was any indication of what you had to work with.

 

You put it on the turntable and went on bumbling through the rest of your extravagant relaxation prep. Or _Operation Lionel is full of shit,_ because at this point, you're determined and it's a mission, and every mission needs a code name.

 

Since there was no bubble bath whatsoever, you thought half a bottle of dish soap would work just fine. It still felt cheap, so you took like – three or four of Root's bath ball things and dropped those suckers in too. And while the over bubbly bombed bath filled, you scavenged every last candle you could possibly find and lit them all in the bathroom. Because ambiance is fucking important.

 

In the end, your bathroom had the ambiance of witch doctor's cave. If it was the mass amounts of candle light or the whiskey vision, either way, the different bath bombs mixed together to form an awful greenish-brown color and the whole thing looked like a voodoo ritual in the making while cheesy 80's music chorused throughout the apartment.

 

You frowned, hesitant to so much as dip a single toe into the ugly froth. But the resolve to be right outweighed the initial disgust, and you took one for the team.

 

Slowly, you sank in. The water might have been visually unappealing, but it was so hot and _so fucking good._ The heat trip wired and blew the tender nerves at every surface of your skin, inch by bursting inch, until it soaked in and hugged all of your aching muscles. _Oh god,_ you might have whimpered a little.

 

The water up to your neck, the bubbles tickling your chin, you closed your eyes and lied there for many unmoving minutes. Until the pain in your back eventually subsided from sharp to dull, your mind oddly followed in suit. The spite and anger melted away into a pure state of calm, and you began to care less and less about today's disasters. It was as if anything beyond the bath tub and the backs of your eyelids held little importance. Because you: this docile, pruned, and paralyzed lump could no longer fathom the meaning of bitterness, let alone be mad at anyone for whatever reason.

 

 _Don't you forget about me_ comes on then. And it's such a terrible song, but still, you found yourself humming along to the melody and bobbing your head to the beat.

 

About halfway into it though, you hear something that's not part of the music at all. Something that sounded like... _a fucking camera shutter._

 

Your eyes snap open in time with the lights that are clicked on and...

 

_Surprise! It's Root!_

 

Why is she home so early? How did she get past the chain? And, How long has she been standing there taking pictures of you? Who knows. The better question boggling your mind; Is Root hungry? Because you're about to make her eat that fucking camera.

 

She grins wildly behind the lens of her phone. “Say cheese, sweetie!”

 

“Seriously?” you utter as the bright flash goes off again. Over the mountain of bubbles and all the white spots in your eyes, you murderously glare.

 

“Oh, these are absolutely perfect, Shaw,” she marvels. “You're even more photogenic when you're wet.”

 

With such great force, you roll your eyes, hoping they'll take the rest of you with them. Under the water. To drown.

 

“Blackmail?” you ask, and Root shrugs in her baggy sweater.

 

“Scrapbook.”

 

It's the odd sort of look you seem to give her everyday, when you can't tell if she's being serious. Does Root have a scrapbook? Probably not, and then again, you probably shouldn't underestimate her weirdness. Hidden somewhere in this apartment, there very well could be a photo album with pages upon pages of you doing mundane things like chewing food, or changing channels, or washing dishes, or sleeping...

 

“Is there a difference?” you groan.

 

“Could I maybe get one of you wearing a bubble hat? It'll really bring out your eyes.”

 

… A secret book; the newest addition, a special section entitled _“Squeaky Clean Shaw”_ or something else sick and twisted like that. 

 

_Sure Root. Add it to your creepy collection._ You're fine with that. So long as she's fine with you doing a little scrap booking of your own. The one and only page will just be a copy of her obituary listed under  _fond memories._

 

“Delete those. Now,” you threaten her.

 

She pouts for a moment. A brief – it may not have even happened – moment, before a genuinely deviant smile quickly emerges from the corners of her lips. AKA Root's resting psycho face.

 

“You know.... I _could_ ,” she leads on, pressing a finger to her chin, “But I think our children would enjoy the story a whole lot more with a little visual aid.”

 

“ _Root...”_ you growl. She doesn't realize how close you are from leaping out of the water and tackling her. 

 

With a heavy sigh, she eventually agrees. “Oh alright.” So like her to pull the lit fuse only when it's about to reach the dynamite. Yet, you notice her fingers make no such motion or effort. Unlike her mouth. “I'll delete them... from my phone. But from my memory...” Root suppresses a chuckle and shakes her head. “I'm sorry, that would be impossible.”

 

“Anything's possible with a good hammer and a great attitude.” You sigh and lean back into the water, even though the moment is ruined.

 

“No amount of blunt force trauma will ever make me forget this...” Root pauses to amusingly examine the state of disarray that was once a bathroom. “What even is this Sameen?”

 

“What's it look like?”

 

Root tip toes over the many lit candles scattered across the floor and comes to sit on the edge of the bath tub. Mental note: her phone containing the damnable evidence is in her left front pocket. For now.

 

“It looks like I came home just in time,” she giggles, running her fingers across the water. “Trying to burn down our love nest?”

 

“I was _trying_ to relax,” you grumble, deciding to leave out the parts involving you spiting Lionel, because Root broke up your scientific process and now the results are inconclusive.

 

“I'm sorry sweetie,” Root coos so unapologetic. “It was rude of me to interrupt.” You felt her fingers teasing your forearm under the water. You saw her bite the twisted smirk of her lips. You heard the playful connotation in her voice when she eventually offered to _“Make it up to you”._

 

You reflect on every stupid thing that happened today, apart from the Machine's 'divine' intervention. It would take Root years to make up for all the bullshit she pulled today. Years. Might as well get cracking.

 

You smirk and match her lustful gaze. “ _Hmm._ You know, Root... There is something I've been wanting you to do...”

 

And Root, the idiot, she buys into it immediately. “And what might that be?” she asks excitedly, wiggling closer towards you.

 

Under the water, you circle her wrist and guide her hand to a better place on your thigh. Licking your lips as you reel her in with the sultriest voice possible. Low and husked and almost moaning, like you've just spent hours coming. “I want you... to take your fist...”

 

Her nose bumps into yours, and it's the point of no return now, when you notice her glossed bedroom eyes fixated and drooling over your lips.

 

“What do you want me to do with my fist Sameen?” she breathes, hot and heavy with anticipation. You nudge a path to her good ear, gasping a little as you moan her name. She loves that crap.

 

“ _Fuck,_ if you could _just-_ ” And when you feel her shiver against your cheek, you know, she's ready to hear your fantasy. “Knock, _Root,_ ” you tell her, “I wish you would knock on the god damn door instead of barging in all the time.”

 

She shrinks away and frowns, lets out this pained sigh of frustration like you've just burst this sexual bubble right in her face. It's wonderful.

 

“I guess I deserved that,” Root plays it off, as if she was never bothered in the first place. You've always admired how quickly she's able to recover, how good of a sport she is most of the time. Root's the kind of woman who can dish it as well as take it. Though sometimes, like you, she can be sore. Like now, for instance, it's apparent her ego is bruised. “Does this make us even now?”

 

“No.” you shake your head. Not even close. “When you replace the chain on my door, we'll be even.”

 

Her jaw drops subtly, gawking in a way. Probably because you've continued to use your mouth for petty things which don't involve kissing her. She looks in the direction of the door and mumbles something about the hardware store being open for another hour, you're not sure. But she wriggles a little on the edge of tub, awkwardly, like she's thinking about going. Thing is, you're not done.

 

“Wait Root,” you stop her at the wrist before she ever sulks away. “You can't leave wearing that.”

 

Confused, she looks down at herself and then to back you. “What's wrong with my clothes?”

 

“They're all wet.”

 

It takes her a second to process. You see her narrowed eyes widen and register, but it's far too late... there's an arm around her waist and you're already pulling her in the bath tub.

 

The bubbly water violently splashes over the edges with the new addition of her body on top of yours. And you fully expect Root to fly out of the tub just as fast as she was thrown in, like a wet and angry hissing cat. Fully clothed and fully submerged, and Root just... _laughs._

 

Whole hearted, honest to goodness, and you're almost taken aback, never having heard such an unbridled roar from someone so cool and calculated as Root. Her laughter echoes throughout the small room, it buzzes delightfully in your ears and swells your chest with a curious warmth. There's an ache spreading in your cheeks, and the only way you know how to make it stop is by smiling. You laugh with Root, thinking maybe this is that thing she keeps pestering you about. Happiness.

 

Your collective hysterics eventually trickle off into a pleasant silence. The record had long since finished, the needle drags a soft static from the other room. You lie comfortably in the bath with Root, her head resting on your chest, her fingers drawing lazy wet circles on your shoulders until the water eventually cools.

 

She's the first one to climb out. Her clothes, drenched and clinging, they drip all over the floor, extinguishing what's left of the lit candles with a faint hiss.

 

“Our food's probably just as cold,” she says, peeling off her baggy sweater and throwing it into the sink.

 

“Food?” Your stomach growls at the very word. “From where?”

 

“La Cena.” Your favorite Italian restaurant. “I picked it up on the way over.” Root smiles, just as you were about to ask, “Yes, I got you the ravioli.”

 

 _Hmm,_ so there's one more thing to look forward to, other than Root taking off her clothes. She's shimmying out of her tight pants when her phone falls from the pocket and clatters against the tile. Root actually tries to shake out some of the water as if that might save it, the goof. You're glad you didn't drown her along with the phone.

 

“So much for your scrapbook, huh?” you joke.

 

Root cocks a brow. “Ever heard of the cloud, Shaw?”

 

“Whatever,” you grunt, reaching to yank the stopper from the drain. But when you move, something awful and jagged bites you in the ass. “ _What the..._ ” Broken glass? Did her phone shatter? You wonder as you blindly grope in the murky water for whatever that sharp piece was.

 

 _Ah ha!_ When your fingers retrieve it.

 

 _Oh no... no, no, no, NO!_ When you see what really it is.

 

“Root!”

 

Half naked Root freezes at the sink, mid twist into wringing out a section of her long hair. She becomes the guiltiest looking deer in headlights, when her eyes suddenly widen as they fall upon the shiny object clenched in your hand...

 

_A diamond ring._

 

**Author's Note:**

> All of you Shoot enthusiasts are seriously wonderful. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
